THE   CHAMELEON 


THE     CHAMELEON 


By 


James  Weber  Linn 

Author  of  The  Second  Generation 


ALDI 


NEW  YORK 

McCujRE,  PHILLIPS  &  Co. 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
McCLUKE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 


Published,  February,  1903,  R 


To  my  two  friends,  with  whom 
I  have  so  often  swapped  aspirations, 

JQott  flint, 
STosep!)  jfftars&all  jflint, 

I  dedicate  this  book 


2136762 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    BRADFORD 3 

II.  BRADFORD  READS  His  LETTER     ...  26 

III.  A  LITTLE  SINGING 44 

IV.  AFTER  THE  WRECK 63 

V.  SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS  ....  78 

VI.  THE  PRESIDENT  AND  AMY      ....     96 

VII.  ENTER  CLARGES 120 

VIII.  THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  .  .  .  .146 

IX.  TEN  MILLION  AND  A  GIRL  .  .  .  .168 

X.  PILGRIMS  IN  BROWN 192 

XI.  TROUBLE  COMES  TO  SHEDSY  .  .  .  .213 

XII.  AMY  is  WARNED 223 

XIII.  A  GIRL  AND  TEN  MILLION    ....  234 

XIV.  THE  AWAKENING  OF  AMY      ....  254 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.    MAKRIAGE 274 

XVI.    AND  AFTER 296 

XVII.    DRIFTING 314 

XVIII.    MURDOCH'S  BIRTHDAY-GIFT        .     .     .328 

XIX.    THE  INEVITABLE 358 

XX.    THE  RECTOR  SPEAKS        382 

XXI.    THE  ROAD  Our                                      .  406 


[viii] 


THE   CHAMELEON 


Chapter  One 

BRADFORD 

Though  there  were  a  good  many  passengers  on  the 
Pullman,  Francis  Bradford  had  mentally  labelled 
them  all  uninteresting.  At  first,  two  young  fel- 
lows, travelling  with  a  mandolin-case  and  five  hand- 
satchels,  had  attracted  him  for  a  moment.  Their 
rough  and  knowingly  shapeless  garments  rendered 
superfluous  the  information  conveyed  by  the  labels, 
"Hotel  Cecil,  London,"  "King's  Arms,  Cam- 
bridge," and  the  rest  so  artfully  disposed  upon  the 
suit-case  of  one.  Surely  they  were  college  men. 
Bradford  watched  them  because  he  could  not  de- 
cide whether  they  were  of  Harvard  or  Yale;  but 
later,  as  he  passed  their  section,  he  glimpsed  the 
hose  one  of  them  wore,  and  knew  immediately  that 
both  his  guesses  had  been  wild ;  the  boys  were  from 
Princeton.  He  saw,  too,  another  label,  informing 
the  world  that  the  owner  of  that  suit-case  was  a 
member  of  some  freshman  team ;  but  that,  too,  was 
[3] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

redundant  information  to  such  as  perceived  the 
striped  hose.  When  he  had  catalogued  the  two,  so 
to  speak,  Bradford  lost  interest  in  the  Princeton- 
ians,  save  as  he  reflected  cynically  on  the  unparal- 
leled haughtiness  of  red-cheeked  youth  which  has 
nothing  to  boast  of  except  that  it  goes  to  college 
and  possesses  fathers  who  have  sold  a  million  hogs, 
or  ten  million  packages  of  tobacco,  or  a  hundred 
million  tenpenny  nails,  as  the  case  may  be.  In 
his  leisurely  survey  of  the  car  Bradford  also 
passed  over  the  woman  with  the  freckled  little  girl, 
praying  only  that  the  child  would  not  become 
troublesome.  Opposite  the  small  potentiality  of 
discomfort  sat  an  old  woman  in  a  black  gown,  orna- 
mented by  fringes  of  tubular  jet  beads.  The 
small  child  was  attracted  to  these  beads,  and  was  at 
length  allowed  to  pass  them  through  her  fingers, 
an  occupation  which  seemed  to  fulfil  her  highest 
dreams  of  enjoyment.  Bradford  was  well  aware 
that  the  owner  of  the  beads  permitted  this  liberty 
as  a  substitute  for  a  more  formal  introduction ;  and 
presently,  as  he  expected,  the  freckled  little  girl's 
mother  was  drawn  into  conversation.  While  they 
discussed  the  obvious  stupidity,  futility,  and  igno- 
[4] 


BRADFORD 

bility  of  physicians,  pointing  out  with  a  responsive 
alternation  cases  in  which  they  had  known  the  doc- 
tors to  fail  of  success  or  to  be  over-greedy  for  op- 
eration, Bradford  listened  with  a  superior  amuse- 
ment ;  but  as  they  launched  upon  the  tamer  if  wider 
waters  of  infantile  ailments,  he  lost  interest  once 
more,  and  yawned  out  of  the  window. 

Very  little  rewarded  his  gaze  there,  either.  Pos- 
sibly an  eye  keen  for  scenic  distinctions  might,  even 
from  a  flying  express  on  a  wobbly  and  underbal- 
lasted  railway,  note  the  points  which  individualize 
a  landscape  and  differentiate  the  smoothness  of 
Ohio  from  the  flatness  of  Illinois,  the  dulness  of  In- 
diana from  the  monotony  of  Iowa ;  but  Bradford's 
eye,  quick  as  it  was  for  humanity,  closed  to  snoring 
slumber  upon  Nature  alone.  Away  and  away  fold- 
ed the  low  ridges,  green  with  grass,  brown  with 
stubble,  or  yellowed  with  the  heavy  oats;  over  and 
over  recurred  the  white  farmhouse,  the  red  barns, 
the  gaunt  old  windmill  like  a  grimly  protecting 
skeleton  towering  above  all — that  remarkable 
group  which  typifies,  in  its  endless  reappearance, 
throughout  the  whole  Middle  West,  the  monotonous 
comfort  and  prosperous  dulness  of  the  "  bulwark  of 
[5] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

the  American  nation,"  the  well-to-do  farmer. 
Neither  the  bulwark  nor  his  environs  amused  Brad- 
ford, who  was  quite  ready  to  turn  back  to  the  car 
when  he  heard  the  rustle  of  a  gown  along  the  aisle. 
A  girl  was  passing. 

It  is  as  easy  for  us  to  say  we  like  this  and  hate 
that  as  it  is  difficult  to  give  any  adequate  reason. 
In  this  truth,  no  doubt,  lies  the  financial  salvation 
of  the  critics  of  all  kinds,  for  we  read  their  works 
to  find  out  why  we  think  as  we  do.  Bradford,  of 
course,  could  not  whirl  round  like  a  top ;  therefore 
he  saw,  not  the  girl's  face,  but  only  her  hair  and 
the  strong,  young  outline  of  her  figure,  and  the 
gray  travelling-gown  she  was  wearing ;  yet,  though 
the  combination  was  nothing  unique  or  new  to  him, 
he  was  sure  at  once  that  he  liked  it  immensely. 
She  went  on  out  of  the  car,  which  disappointed  him 
a  good  deal,  until  he  reflected  that  he  would  see 
her  in  the  dining-car  in  a  few  minutes.  He  went 
thither  among  the  first,  and  dallied  over  his  cinder- 
speckled  dainties  (which  he  conceived  of  as  repre- 
senting geological  epochs,  from  the  Pliocene  can- 
teloupe  to  the  coffee  of  the  glacial  period),  until 
the  waiter  despaired  of  two  tips  from  his  seat,  and 
[6] 


BRADFORD 

could  only  hope  the  one  would  be  a  large  one ;  but 
still  she  did  not  come  in,  and  Bradford  had  to  go 
out  without  seeing  her  again,  a  circumstance  which 
annoyed  him  so  much  he  almost  forgot  to  tip  the 
waiter  at  all.  He  walked  very  slowly  back  through 
the  aisle,  as,  indeed,  the  swaying  train  made  it  im- 
perative for  him  to  do,  looking  carefully  about  in 
his  eagerness  to  see  whether  or  not  her  face  really 
matched  the  ideal  he  had  composed  of  her,  but  still 
she  evaded  him  in  some  way.  He  knew  that  they 
had  stopped  a  short  time  before,  but  the  town  had 
been  merely  a  speck,  a  water- tank  town,  a  town 
printed  in  small  letters  on  the  largest  maps,  and  to 
Bradford  it  was  inconceivable  that  a  girl  with  such 
a  carriage  and  such  a  gown  could  be  willing  even  to 
hesitate  there.  He  felt  irritated,  and  even  a  little 
defrauded. 

Some  time  later  in  the  evening,  keeping  his  bal- 
ance with  difficulty  as  the  car  increasingly  rocked, 
he  went  forward  into  the  smoking-compartment.  It 
was  then  about  nine  o'clock,  and  the  train  was  due 
to  reach  Carfax  in  twelve  hours  more ;  nine  in  the 
morning,  unless  one  of  the  not  infrequent  delays  of 
the  C.  &  A.  occurred,  would  see  them  in  the  old  city 


THE     CHAMELEON 

where  he  expected  to  live.  He  had  a  letter  to  read 
— a  letter  about  which  he  had  been  speculating  for 
a  good  many  years;  a  letter  which  was  likely  to 
prove  deeply  personal,  and  from  a  woman  whose 
opinion,  when  she  was  alive,  he  cared  more  about 
than  any  other  person's  in  the  world — from  his 
mother.  To-night,  on  this  rattling,  slinging  train, 
among  total  strangers,  was  the  time  appointed  for 
its  perusal — "  the  night,"  as  she  said,  "  before  he 
began  the  practice  of  his  profession."  He  found 
three  men  sitting  talking  in  the  smoking-compart- 
ment,  and,  as  he  had  gone  there  especially  to  be 
alone,  he  decided  to  wait  until  they  went  away. 
He  was  going  to  receive  a  message  from  a  past 
which  his  life  could  never  duplicate,  and  he  wished 
to  receive  it  by  himself.  Although  the  delay  made 
him  frown  a  little,  he  was  not  unready  to  endure  it ; 
partly  because  he  wanted  instinctively  to  put  his 
letter  off  till  the  last  possible  moment,  as  he  liked 
to  put  off  most  things  which  threatened  to  be  at  all 
disagreeable.  He  was  keenly  curious,  but  he  had 
an  uncomfortable  sensation  that  possibly  his  moth- 
er's message  might  be  severe.  She  had  been  an  odd 
woman,  his  little  mother. 

[  8] 


BRADFORD 

Moreover,  he  was  not  disinclined  to  listen  to  one 
of  these  three  men — a  man  whose  strong,  smiling, 
plebeian  face  he  had  half -recognized  in  the  din- 
ing-car an  hour  or  two  before.  After  a  while  he 
had  said  to  his  waiter,  "  Who  is  that  big  man  with 
the  spotted  vest,  Charley?  Do  you  know  his 
name?"  "That  genel'man,  seh? "  replied  the 
waiter,  adjusting  the  spoons  that  he  might  lower 
his  tone  to  the  confidential,  "  yes,  seh ;  that's  Mis- 
teh  Murdoch,  seh,  the  pickle-makeh."  Bradford 
had  known  at  once  whence  his  vague  half-recog- 
nition sprang  from;  he  had  recollected  at  once 
those  lithographed  billboards  wherefrom  that  same 
strong,  smiling,  plebeian  face,  pictured  in  three 
colors,  greeted  the  public  of  every  city  in  the 
United  States  every  day.  Bradford  had  seen  those 
lithographs  in  New  York  from  the  windows  of  the 
cab  which  took  him  from  the  steamboat  pier;  he 
had  paced  the  depot  platform  in  Philadelphia,  and 
beheld  through  a  vista  of  iron  arches  a  street  at 
the  end  decorated  by  the  same  design;  in  Carfax, 
the  actual  home  of  "  Misteh  Murdoch,  the  pickle- 
makeh,"  no  doubt  but  they  would  be  legion.  Now 
in  the  smoker  he  noted  once  more,  with  an  amused 
[9] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

flick  of  his  eyelids,  the  wide  expanse  of  Murdoch's 
dark-green,  crimson-spotted  waistcoat,  so  wide  and 
so  crimson  that  it  reminded  him  irresistibly  of  the 
fields  of  poppies  he  had  just  left  in  France.  Just 
because  Murdoch  was  so  huge  a  man  the  other  de- 
tails of  his  appearance  were  noticeable,  too.  He 
was  tall,  and  he  was  bulky;  still,  he  was  not 
paunchy ;  if  the  line  from  his  shoulder  to  his  hips 
did  not  angle  in,  at  least  it  was  perpendicular.  The 
short  neck  promised  a  big  head,  and  there  it  was, 
big  as  Daniel  Webster's.  Altogether,  Murdoch 
completely  filled  the  eye  of  a  casual  observer, 
though  Bradford  knew  well  enough  that  an  artist's 
glance  would  never  hesitate  on  such  a  comfortably 
common  figure.  The  man,  like  his  lithographs, 
had  been  done  in  the  primary  colors. 

"  We  are  told,"  said  one  of  the  other  men,  who 
was  staring  aimlessly  into  the  darkness,  pressing 
against  the  window,  "  that  as  soon  as  we  have 
reached  a  land  where  the  ground  is  flat  and  the 
people  are  not,  we  may  know  we  have  come  to  the 
West?  Is  that  your  opinion,  sir?  " 

The  pickle-maker  laughed.  "  Well,  not  alto- 
gether," he  said.  "  We've  got  some  hills,  and 
[10] 


BRADFORD 

some  fools — even  in  the  West.  But  I  reckon  they've 
both  got  New  England  ancestry,  maybe."  He 
laughed  again,  joyfully.  He  had  a  rich  slow- 
ness of  speech  which  could  not  be  called  a  drawl 
because  he  clipped  off  the  ends  of  his  words  so 
sharply. 

"  The  door-yard  of  the  universe,"  said  the  other 
man,  meditatively,  still  gazing  out  of  the  window. 
"  Good  name  for  this  section.  When  I  make  the 
transcontinental  jump,  I  feel  as  if  I  was  in  the 
door-yard  until  I  pass  Omaha." 

"  And  yet  Omaha  is  a  long  way  from  Boston, 
too — eh,  professor?  " 

The  window-gazer  turned  lazily  about.  He  was 
smoking  a  cigarette.  He  wore  a  dark  beard,  cut 
to  a  point,  and  possessed  the  thin  cheeks  and  large 
nose  which  suggest  cynicism. 

"  So  I  am  to  be  classed  as  a  professor  ?  " 

Murdoch  nodded  imperturbably.  The  third  man 
winked  at  Bradford. 

"  Of  what,  sir?  You  know  there  are  professors 
and  professors,  now.  Am  I  a  professor  of  pres- 
tidigitation, of  saltation,  or  of  the  genus  ton- 
sorialae?  " 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  About  that,"  remarked  the  pickle-maker,  cau- 
tiously, "  I  wouldn't  undertake  to  say.  But  I'll 
bet  you  that  I  can  tell  one  kind  of  a  professor  that 
you're  not,  and  that  is " 

"Well?" 

"  What  the  old  ladies  call  a  professor  of  relig- 
ion." 

The  man  who  had  winked  now  slapped  his  leg. 
"  He's  got  you  sized,  Bates,"  he  declared.  "  He 
certainly  has  you  under  glass."  He  knocked  the 
ashes  of  his  cigar  to  the  carpet,  and  scattered  them 
neatly  with  his  toe. 

"  Did  you  say  you  were  bound  for  California?  " 
asked  Murdoch.  The  man  addressed  as  Bates 
nodded. 

"  How  do  you  like  California?  " 

He  meditated  without  apparent  enthusiasm. 
"  So-so.  I've  been  there  only  once.  When  I  com- 
pared it  to  Boston  I  seemed  to  find  some  advan- 
tages, and  then  some  disadvantages.  Did  you  ever 
hear  the  story  of  the  sinner  who  was  being  urged 
to  reform,  after  a  beautiful  purple  life?  They 
gave  him  the  hot  hereafter  pretty  straight,  and 
when  they  finished  he  hesitated;  then  he  said, 
[12] 


BRADFORD 

*  Well,  parson,  though  heaven's  got  the  climate, 
after  all,  you  know,  hell's  got  the  company.'  " 

"  I'd  hate  to  tell  that  story  either  in  Boston  or 
in  California,"  said  the  third  man. 

"  I'd  hate  to  tell  it  in  Boston,  anyhow,"  assented 
Murdoch,  recovering  from  his  laughter.  "  But 
now  you  let  me  tell  you,  gentlemen  " — he  leaned 
forward  and  tapped  the  professorial  knee  with  a 
ponderous  but  prepossessing  forefinger — "  you  let 
me  tell  you  that  the  State  of  California  is  destined 
to  become  the  State  of  the  Union ;  the  State  of  the 
Union — or  pretty  near.  You  take  those  orange 
groves  and  lemon  groves,  and  solid  miles  and  miles 
of  walnuts,  and  grapes — counties  full  of  grapes, 
'  tangling  themselves  in  their  own  rich  tendrils,'  as 
the  poet  says — and  then  do  you  think  you've  got  it 
all?  You  take  their  gold  mines  and  their  silver 
mines  and  their  jewel  mines — their  mountains  of 
hematite,  and  mountains  of  copper,  and  mountains 
of  the  Lord  knows  what  that's  valuable " 

"  Mountains  of  brass,"  murmured  Bates. 

"  Eh?  I  didn't  catch  it.  Well,  then  do  you 
think  you've  got  it  all?  You  take  their  wheat  like 
the  Dakotas,  and  their  barley  like  Ohio,  and  their 
[13] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

oats  like  Iowa,  and  then  do  you  think  you've  got  it 
all?  You  take  their  fisheries,  and  their  factories, 
and  then  do  you  think  you've  got  it  all?  No, 
sir!" 

"  When  may  we  expect  to  get  it  all?  "  politely 
inquired  he  of  the  whiskers. 

"  When  you  go  north ! "  replied  the  pickle- 
maker,  unexpectedly.  "  When  you  go  north,  up 
among  the  mountains,  where  the  trees  grow ;  where 
the  trees  grow  that  are  unequalled  anywhere  now — 
the  pines,  the  straightest-backed,  cleanest-hearted, 
honestest  trees  anywhere  on  God's  green  earth  to- 
day." 

"  California  man,  I  presume?  "  suggested  Bates. 
But  Murdoch  shook  his  head. 

"  No.  I  belong  here  in  Carfax.  It's  just  the 
thought  of  those  pines  that  sets  me  off.  I  believe 
a  man  who  would  cut  one  of  those  pines  unneces- 
sarily would  kill  his  mother;  I  really  do."  The 
pickle-maker's  eyes  glowed  with  enthusiasm. 

"  What  a  set  of  potential  matricides  there  must 
be  in  this  country,  on  that  showing ! " 

"  You're  down  on  the  lumbermen,  hey  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I'm  not ;  I'm  not  at  all,"  answered 


BRADFORD 

Murdoch.  "  If  we've  got  to  have  the  timber,  why, 
somebody's  got  to  cut  it.  But  I'm  glad  I  don't 
have  to.  I'll  tell  you  something.  Up  here  in  the 
north  a  ways  I've  got  a  house  cost  me  ten  thou- 
sand to  put  up;  right  spang  in  the  heart  of  a 
grove  of  pines — little  fellows  enough,  compared  to 
those  California  giants — but  anyway,  I  only  cut 
down  four  trees  to  make  room  for  that  house;  I 
dodged  the  rest,  and  saved  every  one  of  'em.  Now, 
what  do  you  think  of  that?  " 

"  Stone  house?  " 

"  No ;  it's  wood."  He  caught  his  questioner's 
eye,  and  laughed.  "  But,  as  I  say,  the  sin  ain't  on 
my  conscience,  and  if  I'd  cut  any  more  of  my  pines 
than  I  had  to  it  would  have  been." 

Presently,  after  some  desultory  conversation,  the 
professor,  if  such  he  were,  and  his  friend  rose  to 
go  to  bed,  only  to  be  dropped  back  upon  their 
seats  as  the  train  shot  round  a  curve. 

"  It's  early,  gentlemen." 

"  It  will  be  late  enough  before  I  get  to  sleep," 
answered  Bates.  "  Morpheus  never  travels  on  the 
Carfax  and  Albans  Railroad,  I  have  observed." 

"  /  go  by  it  for  the  exercise  I  get,"  said  his 
[15] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

friend,  clutching  at  the  wall.     "  I  find  it  keeps 
down  my  fat.     Good-night,  boys." 

Bradford  had  taken  no  part  in  the  conversation ; 
and  now  that  they  were  left  alone  the  big  man 
sprawled  his  big  body  silently  over  the  seat,  while 
Bradford  watched  him  unobserved.  He  seemed  not 
more  than  forty  years  of  age.  His  face,  though 
it  was  full  and  smooth,  was  not  mottled  by  high 
living,  and  the  heavy  lips  under  his  dark  mustache 
were  cleanly  cut.  At  some  inward  flash  of  remi- 
niscence they  curved  into  a  smile,  and  then  the 
large  brown  eyes,  as  steady  and  honest  as  a  St. 
Bernard's,  carried  so  agreeable  a  light  that  Brad- 
ford smiled  in  turn.  Suddenly  the  big  man  looked 
down,  and  saw  him. 

"  Well,  young  man,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "  life 
going  pretty  well,  eh?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  Mr.  Murdoch,"  replied  Bradford, 
amiably.  He  pronounced  the  man's  name  in  the 
expectation  that  it  would  surprise  him  a  trifle; 
Bradford  liked  to  do  the  slightly  unexpected.  He 
was  not  disappointed.  Murdoch  looked  at  him  with 
a  sharper  interest. 

"  You  know  me,  do  you?  " 
[16] 


BRADFORD 

"  Homo  Americanus  sum,"  observed  Bradford. 

"What  say?" 

Bradford  risked  an  impertinence.  "  Well,  sir,  I 
can  read." 

"Read?" 

"  The  billboards." 

Murdoch  broke  into  his  deep  laughter.  "  Ho ! 
ho !  "  he  chuckled.  "  So  you  see  the  billboards, 
eh?  Knew  me  from  the  pictures,  eh?  You  ain't 
the  first,  young  man,  nor  you  won't  be  the  last. 
Who's  the  best-known  woman  in  the  United  States 
to-day?  Who's  the  woman,  if  she  was  to  step 
out  on  a  railroad  platform,  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  within  sight  would  recognize  her?  The 
President's  wife  ?  Not  she.  I'll  tell  you  who — it's 
Lydia  Pinkham.  Lydia  leads;  the  rest  nowhere. 
That's  advertising.  Well,  do  you  know  what  I  set 
out  to  do,  when  I  had  those  pictures  of  me  printed  ? 
I  said  to  myself,  I'm  going  to  be  as  well  known  as 
Lydia  Pinkham!  And  the  time's  coming  on — 
eh?" 

"  I  believe  you,  Mr.  Murdoch." 

"  I  went  to  a  dozen  photographers,  gave  'em 
each  a  dozen  poses,  and  then  picked  out  the  one 
[17] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

nearest  like  me,  and  had  it  printed — horns,  hoofs, 
and  all.  I  don't  wonder  you  knew  me.  I  wonder 
more  people  don't." 

"  I  didn't  see  the  lithographs  in  Europe  ?  " 

"  You  will  next  year.  They  haven't  been  out 
very  long.  You  just  back  from  Europe?  " 

"  Just  back." 

"  Well,  I've  never  been  over.  That  might  sur- 
prise you  somewhat?  I  know  all  the  corners  of 
America,  but  Europe  I  haven't  got  round  to,  yet. 
I've  been  cultivating  nature  so  much  I've  rather 
crowded  out  art,  so  far.  But  it's  a  grief  to  me — '• 
a  real  grief." 

"Ah?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Murdoch,  comfortably,  "  I  want  to 
get  across  and  see  all  those  countries — Italy,  you 
know,  and  France,  and  all  the  rest — Spain,  and 
what  not.  America  is  a  wonderful  nation — the 
most  wonderful,  of  course;  but  they  do  have  cer- 
tain matters  we  haven't  got,  and  sha'n't  have  for  a 
while  yet.  Art,  I  was  just  speaking  of — painting, 
you  understand,  and  sculpture,  and  architecture. 
We're  moving  on ;  but — speaking  in  an  artistic 
sense — we  haven't  arrived  yet." 
[18] 


BRADFORD 

"  You  are  an  adherent  of  art,  sir  ?** 

"I?  Every  time.  You  know  my  business,  of 
course,  if  you've  seen  my  pictures.  I  make  pickles 
— just  pickles.  All  kinds  of  pickles — big  and  lit- 
tle, chowchow,  relishes,  dill,  watermelon,  chutney, 
everything.  You  wouldn't  suppose  that  gave  a 
man  much  opportunity  to  do  art  a  friendly  turn, 
would  you?  I  didn't  think  so,  either,  for  a  long 
time;  and  the  fact  is,  till  I  got  on  my  feet,  I 
wasn't  so  much  anxious  to  help  art  as  to  help  my- 
self." He  chuckled  again.  "  But  one  day,  a  while 
ago,  a  man  came  to  me,  and  he  had  a  suggestion. 
He  proposed  that  he  should  pick  me  out  a  little  bit 
from  Shakespeare  to  illustrate  each  sort  of  pickle; 
we'd  have  it  printed  on  the  cans,  underneath  a 
picture  of  his  house  at  Stratford,  and  call  the 
whole  thing  the  Shakespeare  Brand.  I  saw  at 
once  what  a  scheme  it  was,  and  gave  him  carte 
blanche  to  find  the  mottoes,  which  he  did.  Now 
we  have  one  from  King  Henry  V.  on  the  baked 
beans — 'I  eat  and  eat,  I  swear ' — that  one  I  al- 
ways laughed  at."  He  laughed  now.  "  Then  there 
is  '  Manna  in  the  way  of  starved  people,'  that's 
from  the  Merchant  of  Venice;  it's  on  the  water- 
[19] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

melon  pickles.  And  we  have  '  The  strength  of 
twenty  men  '  on  the  mustard — Romeo  and  Juliet, 
that  is.  You  wouldn't  think  a  scrap  of  poetry  like 
that  would  do  any  good,  eh?  And  yet  I've  had 
letters  from  all  over  the  country — all  over  the 
country — commending  that  idea,  and  thanking  me 
for  it." 

"  And  the  Shakespeare  brand  sells  ?  " 
"  Sells  very  well.  But  that  isn't  all.  I  try  to 
make  my  advertising  artistic,  too.  There's  a  field 
for  art  in  advertising,  eh?  At  least  a  man  can 
keep  all  that's  coarse  and  vulgar  out  of  it,  can't 
he?  I  tell  you,  I'm  friendly  to  art — do  you  know 
why?  "  He  moved  a  little  closer.  "  To  my  mind, 
there  are  places  and  people  and  sounds  in  America 
that  are  grander  and  deeper  and  sweeter  than  any- 
where else  in  the  world.  It  isn't  only  in  keenness 
and  sharpness  that  America  leads ;  we've  got  higher 
possibilities  over  here,  in  all  ways.  Only,  we've 
found  out  how  to  express  our  keenness  and  sharp- 
ness, through  trade  and  commerce,  do  you  see? 
All  the  rest  is  here,  too,  but  we  can't  express  it 
yet.  Say,  young  man,  have  you  ever  seen  those 
mountain  meadows  in  Colorado — green  as  sea- 
[20] 


BRADFORD 

water,  and  springing  right  from  among  them 
snow-white  cliffs  hundreds  and  thousands  of  feet 
high?  Have  you  ever  seen  the  deserts  in  the 
southwest  —  so  big  and  raw  and  terrifying  I 
never  see  'em  without  thinking  ,of  the  earth  as  God 
made  it  and  before  he  turned  the  water  on  ?  Have 
you  ever  stood  among  those  pines  I  was  just  talk- 
ing of,  and  watched  'em  till  you  felt  yourself 
getting  smaller  and  smaller,  and  honester  and  hon- 
ester,  till  finally  there  was  no  more  of  you,  seemed 
like,  than  a  pin-head,  but  it  was  clean  stuff  all 
through,  anyway?  I  have.  And  I've  thought — 
well,  I  guess  there's  nothing  like  this  anywhere  else 
but  in  America ;  and  it  won't  be  long  till  the  man 
comes  along  with  his  brush  or  his  piano  or  his  pen 
who  can  set  it  all  down  in  paint  and  paper  and 
music,  so  that  there  won't  be  anything  in  art  like 
that,  either.  And  when  he  comes  America  will 
lead  the  world  in  all  ways,  as  she  ought  to,  and 
John  Murdoch  is  going  to  do  all  he  can  to  bring 
it  about.  Well — that's  why  I'm  friendly  to  art." 
His  big  brown  eyes  kindled,  and  he  spoke  with  the 
eagerness  and  confidence  of  a  child. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are,"  consented  Bradford.    He 


THE     CHAMELEON 

perceived,  without  a  too  open  smile,  the  pickle- 
maker's  eagerness,  and  his  colossal  ignorance  of 
the  artistic  problem  which  confronted  America. 
He  wondered  what  Murdoch  would  say  if  some- 
one should  tap  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  tell  him, 
"  My  dear  fellow,  you  and  your  cursed  lithographs 
you  are  so  proud  of — you,  and  the  kind  of  men 
you  represent — are  doing  more  to  lower  the  stand- 
ards of  America  in  art  and  literature  than  even 
the  daily  newspapers  are.  You  might  publish  fifty 
thousand  dietetic  epigrams  from  Shakespeare,  and 
if  the  great  bard  learns  of  it  he  will  only  turn 
in  his  grave.  You  are  prostituting  art,  Mr.  Mur- 
doch; you  have  turned  the  poor  lady  to  harlotry, 
and  she  is  dying  by  inches,  like  other  harlots." 
Bradford  himself  was  conscious  of  a  strong  desire 
to  make  these  or  similar  observations,  not  because 
he  resented  this  utilization  of  Shakespeare,  but  be- 
cause it  would  be  amusing,  to  say  the  least.  But  he 
restrained  himself. 

"  Going  far  ?  "  asked  Murdoch. 

"  No.     I'm  going  to  live  in  Carfax." 

"  So  ?     Do  you  know  the  place  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  went  to  college  there." 
[22] 


BRADFORD 

"  I  was  an  eighty-blank  man." 

"  At  Carfax  ?  I  know,  sir."  Bradford  nodded. 
"  I  was  only  ten  years  after  you,  sir." 

"  Going  into  business?  " 

"  In  a  way.  The  lamb  and  the  law  are  to  try 
lying  together,  I  believe."  The  whim  seized  him, 
and  he  pulled  out  his  card-case,  extracting  one  of 
his  new  cards.  The  pickle-maker  glanced  at  it. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Bradford, 
especially  as  we're  both  Carfax  men.  I  won't  say 
I've  heard  of  you  before,  though  I've  no  doubt  if 
I'd  had  more  time  to  get  down  to  the  old  college 
when  you  were  there  I  should  have  done  so.  But 
I'm  sure  I'll  hear  of  you  again." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Of  course,  since  you  were  to  be  a  lawyer  you 
naturally  went  to  college,"  went  on  Murdoch. 
"  But  what  I  wish  is,  that  I  could  fix  it  so  every 
young  man  worth  his  salt  would  go,  whether  he 
wants  to  be  a  minister  or  a  manufacturer.  Now 
you  take  me.  College  needed  four  years,  right  out 
of  the  best  part  of  my  life.  I  never  intended  to 
be  a  professor,  or  a  learned  man  of  any  sort — just 
a  business  man.  I  mowed  lawns  and  tended  fur- 
[23] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

naces  to  get  through.  Suppose  I  had  spent  those 
four  years  in  business  ?  Maybe  I  should  have  suc- 
ceeded sooner.  I  can't  tell;  but  anyway,  I'd  have 
lost  something  that  I  wouldn't  sell  now,  any  more 
than  I'd  sell  my  word,  and  that  is,  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  educated !  " 

"  It  is  a  great  privilege,"  assented  Bradford. 

"  You'll  never  know  how  great  until  you  reach 
my  age.  Fourteen  years  I've  been  working  since 
then,  and  I've  made  Carfax  what  she  should  have 
been  long  before — the  centre  of  the  pickle  business 
in  the  United  States.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  one 
thing :  the  opportunities  ain't  all  gone.  Any  other 
young  man,  if  he's  got  energy,  and  believes  that 
when  you  see  a  chance  then  is  the  time  to  take  it, 
and  when  you  don't  see  it  then  is  the  time  to  make 
it,  can  succeed  just  as  well  as  I  have.  They'll  tell 
you  the  law  is  overcrowded,  for  instance.  Shucks ! 
You  ask  a  man  digging  a  sewer  what  he  thinks 
about  the  trade,  and  ten  to  one  he'll  tell  you  there 
are  too  many  sewer-diggers.  All  professions  are 
overcrowded;  the  world's  overcrowded,  unless  you 
get  in  and  shove.  What  do  you  suppose  God  gave 
you  elbows  for?  You  remember  one  thing — his 
[24] 


BRADFORD 

profession  don't  make  or  break  the  man;  it's  the 
men  who  make  or  break  a  profession." 

The  reeling  car  swung  him  forcibly  against  the 
window,  and  he  swore  a  little.  "  Next  time  I'll 
put  my  elbow  through  it,"  he  said.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  "  Well,  I'll  say  good-night,  Mr.  Brad- 
field.  I  must  go  forward  and  look  after  my 
women  folks.  You  say  you  live  in  Carfax?  Like 
to  have  you  call  round  at  the  factory  some  time; 
it's  really  worth  going  over." 

"  Bradford,"  murmured  the  owner  of  that  name 
gently.  Then,  at  last,  he  was  left  alone  with  his 
letter. 


[25] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

He  sat  some  time  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  hesi- 
tating. The  superscription  told  him  that  now 
was  the  time  to  open  it.  "  To  my  son.  To  be 
opened  on  the  day  before  he  begins  the  practice 
of  his  profession."  That  was  the  curious  way  in 
which  the  address  ran — curiously  reminiscent,  in 
its  quaint  particularity,  of  the  mother  who  had 
died  five  years  before.  He  was  at  college  then. 
They  sent  for  him  to  come  home,  and  on  the  jour- 
ney he  counted  the  minutes  one  by  one — so  many, 
so  many,  so  very  many,  the  long  night,  the  end- 
less day ! — and,  at  last,  in  the  long  afternoon,  he 
had  reached  the  little  prairie  city  in  which  she 
lived.  The  minister  met  him  at  the  door.  That  of 
all  men  it  must  be  that  minister,  with  his  subdued, 
come-let-us-be-cheerful-at-all-hazards  air,  and  the 
dull  snuffle  in  his  voice !  Bradford  took  his  offered 
[26] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

hand  mechanically,  conscious  in  his  preoccupation 
that  the  sleeve  had  a  speck  of  egg  on  the  end  of 
it.  "  My  mother  ?  "  he  asked,  breathlessly,  taken 
out  of  himself  at  the  moment.  "  My  boy,"  the 
minister  had  said,  "  this  is  a  vain  world,  a  world 

of  shadows "     "  My  mother?  "  Bradford  had 

interrupted  intensely.  "  Sorrow  comes  to  us  all," 
went  on  the  minister,  monotonously,  "  and  we 

must  bear  it  with  what  fortitude  we "    "  Curse 

you  and  your  fortitude !  "  broke  in  Bradford.  His 
voice  was  wavering,  thrilling;  the  suspense  was 
tearing  the  heart  out  of  him,  yet  he  knew  it  was 
not  suspense,  either,  but  certainty  that  lay  con- 
cealed behind  the  man's  even,  dull  consolation. 
Bradford  had  not  eaten  since  the  afternoon  be- 
fore. "  Is  my  mother  dead  ?  "  The  shocked  min- 
ister nodded  feebly ;  Bradford's  hands  dropped  at 
his  side. 

He  recalled  his  thoughts  with  a  start,  and  smiled 
cynically.  It  had  not  really  happened  so.  His 
entrance  to  the  house  had  borne  no  such  touch  of 
fervor.  The  minister  had  told  him  simply  and  at 
once.  Yet  Bradford  had  loved  his  mother,  and  so 
to  find  her  dead,  cut  off  from  him  forever,  to  speak 
[27] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

to  him  no  more,  to  kiss  him  no  more,  to  love  him 
no  more — such  a  homecoming  he  could  not  forget. 
It  had  been  dull  in  the  event,  but  the  latent  pos- 
sibility of  drama  was  there.  Bradford  had  merely 
imagined  what  might  have  been. 

"  To  be  opened  on  the  day  before  he  begins  the 
practice  of  his  profession."  They  had  always 
known  that  he  was  to  be  a  lawyer.  After  she  went 
away  he  had  continued  in  the  idea;  finished  his 
college  course,  finished  his  law  course,  taken  his 
year  abroad,  and  now  was  come  back,  to  enter 
upon  the  practice  of  his  profession.  He  did  not 
contemplate  the  future  with  that  sinking  of  the 
heart  which  besets  so  many  young  lawyers.  Brad- 
ford professed  disbelief  in  his  own  cleverness,  but 
the  chorus  of  voices  about  him  which  chanted  it 
and  called  his  attention  to  it  had  ended  by  fasten- 
ing belief  upon  him  unaware,  and  even  against 
his  judgment.  He  admitted  to  himself  that  he 
would  probably  succeed.  He  would  not  achieve 
the  raw,  huge,  unworked  success  of  such  crude  fel- 
lows as  Murdoch,  but  he  would  get  along.  He  in- 
tended to  make  his  life  a  smaller,  finer  thing,  cut 
and  set  as  a  jewel  should  be,  and  in  proportion  far 
[28] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

more  valuable  than  the  big  ugly  masses  of  clay 
and  carbon  which  the  world  was  always  finding  on 
hill-sides  and  triumphantly  holding  up  for  dia- 
monds. Such  a  man  as  Murdoch  was  remarkable, 
no  doubt,  but  how  unfortunately  rough !  As  Brad- 
ford remembered  Murdoch's  phrase  about  "  the 
consciousness  of  being  an  educated  man "  he 
laughed  quietly  the  laugh  which  he  had  courteously 
repressed  before  the  man  himself.  The  pickle- 
maker's  ideas  of  art  were  Patagonian ;  yet  he  sub- 
limely believed  himself  an  educated  man ! 

He  recalled  those  tremendous  lithographs,  plas- 
tering the  bare  walls  and  the  billboards  which 
between  them  successfully  hid  any  chance  pictu- 
resqueness  Carfax  might  otherwise  have  had. 
When  Bradford  had  first  seen  the  lithographed 
picture  he  had  thought,  as  he  had  thought  to-night 
at  the  sight  of  the  man  in  the  flesh,  this  Murdoch 
would  be  a  good  sort  to  clash  a  stein  with.  There 
was  something  taking  in  the  width  between  the 
eyes,  the  solidity  of  the  chin,  and  the  upward  twist 
at  the  corner  of  the  mouth — a  kind  of  aggressive 
good-humor  and  powerful  joviality,  which  slaps 
you  on  the  back  with  amazing  heartiness,  and  is 
[29] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

not  at  all  bad  when  found  in  certain  wide  spaces 
of  life.  But  one  would  hardly  care  to  live  with 
such  a  man,  Bradford  thought,  shudderingly,  and 
began  to  imagine  the  family — Mrs.  Murdoch, 
thin-chested,  but  bearing  the  honors  of  the  pickle- 
making  business  with  a  querulous  dignity ;  a 
woman  to  blush  and  cry,  "  Oh,  husband !  "  when 
the  cheerful  John  was  too  obscene  in  his  humor, 
but  a  woman  to  boast,  in  every  ring  and  thread  of 
lace  she  wore,  of  the  wealth  which  immensely  to 
her  surprise  had  come  upon  her.  There  would  be 
children,  and  yet  more  children — Mrs.  Murdoch 
would  get  her  thin  chest  from  the  constant  bear- 
ing of  them;  she  would  be  always  in  an  Empire 
gown.  And  these  children  would  be  what?  The 
typical  American  brats,  no  doubt,  loud-voiced, 
French  in  their  impudence  if  their  nurse  were 
French,  Irish  if  she  were  Irish,  but  rampantly  im- 
pudent and  American  through  either  veneer,  al- 
ways ready  to  show  off  and  to  interrupt — as  he 
himself  had  been,  thought  Bradford  with  a  reminis- 
cent shiver — and  intrusive  as  young  pigs.  Les 
Americains  nouveaux  riches — grandfatherless ! 
With  minute  carefulness  he  clipped  the  end 
[30] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

from  his  letter,  so  that  the  thread  of  paper  curled 
up  and  followed  the  knife-blade.  His  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  curl,  but  his  thoughts  were  far  back  in 
the  past  again.  After  all,  then,  he  remembered  bit- 
terly, he  had  reached  home  too  late.  When  he  saw 
her  that  day,  his  mother's  eyes  were  shut  upon 
him.  Her  last  words  had  been  for  others.  But 
when  they  gave  him  this  letter  he  knew  at  least 
that  her  last  thoughts  had  been  of  him.  That  was 
five,  nearly  six  years  ago  now.  It  was  strange, 
this  word  of  his  mother's  coming  to  him,  unheard 
by  anyone  else  across  the  spaces  of  six  years. 
This,  which  he  was  about  to  read,  she  had  left  him 
for  a  little  piece  of  herself.  What  had  she  chosen 
to  say  to  him — counsel,  denunciation,  revelation, 
or  perhaps — praise? 

"  You  are  going  to  begin  your  life  to-morrow ; 
I  am  leaving  mine  behind  me  to-day.  Francis,  will 
it  help  you  to  know  that  you  were  a  good  son  to 
me  ?  "  If  his  mother  should  say  that !  His  heart 
was  warm  within  him  at  the  thought.  That  mes- 
sage would  nerve  a  man  for  life,  would  it  not? 
Had  he  been  a  good  son  to  her?  At  least  he  felt 
that  he  had  not  been  evil.  He  did  not  pray  for 
[31] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

forgetf ulness  of  what  he  had  done ;  but  then,  there 
was  the  other  half  of  the  petition:  had  he  left 
anything  undone?  The  answer  was  not  so  ready 
this  time.  Yet  he  was  sure  that  he  had  been,  on 
the  whole,  a  good  son,  and  his  heart  leaped  up 
when  he  remembered  how  he  loved  his  mother.  She 
had  married  so  early  in  life  that  there  were  only 
twenty  years  between  her  and  her  son ;  yet  her  hair 
was  snow-white  when  she  died,  and  even  earlier  he 
could  recall  it  in  the  firelight,  when  she  used  to  sit 
in  her  chair  with  him  at  her  knees,  his  head  in  her 
lap,  while  she  stroked  his  head  and  told  him 
stories  of  his  father,  who  had  died  when  Francis 
was  quite  a  little  boy.  The  light  brought  out  the 
gentleness  of  her  face  as  she  talked.  How  he  loved 
his  mother !  Surely  she  could  not  be  about  to  scold 
him  now !  Slowly  he  took  out  the  letter  and  began 
to  read. 

"  My  dearest,  as  I  write  you  are  far  away  from 
me,  but  when  you  read  this  you  will  be — how  much 
farther!  I  am  going  to  die.  Just  how  soon  I  do 
not  know,  but  I  think  very  soon.  We  shall  not 
often  see  each  other  again,  I  am  afraid  "  — had 
they  ever  seen  each  other,  Bradford  wondered, 
[32] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

after  she  wrote  that  ? — "  and  even  if  we  should,  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  which  I  do  not  wish  to 
tell  you  while  I  am  alive.  Just  now  it  will  do  you 
no  good,  possibly  even  harm,  and  it  would  cause 
you  suffering.  Yet  you  ought  some  time  to  know. 
So  I  am  writing  this,  which  you  will  not  see  until 
I  am  gone,  and  you  are  ready  to  begin  your  work 
in  life. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  a  lawyer,  and  I  hope  you 
will  be,  not  necessarily  a  great  one,  but  a  good  one. 
I  know  that  the  life  is  hard  at  first,  but  you  will 
have  it  made  easier  for  you  than  many  have, 
easier  indeed  than  your  life  is  now  while  I  am 
alive,  for  the  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  which  I 
have  remaining  will  of  course  go  to  you.  I  am 
glad,  dearest,  that  you  are  not  going  to  endure 
hardships,  and  yet  I  am  not  altogether  sure  some- 
times that  to  escape  hardships  is  wisest  for  any  of 
us.  If  this  money,  which  will  come  in  so  steadily 
without  your  troubling  yourself  about  it,  should 
make  you  less  energetic,  less  ambitious,  less  eager 
in  your  pursuit  of  the  very  best  that  is  to  be  got 
out  of  life,  I  should  feel — no,  I  will  say  I  shall 
feel,  for  I  know  that  I  shall  be  permitted  to  watch 
[33] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

you — I  do  not  care  how  happy  heaven  may  be,  I 
shall  feel  unhappy ;  I  shall  feel  sorry  that  you  did 
not  have  actual  necessity  to  force  you  forward.  I 
am  not  afraid  that  you  will  do  anything  to  make 
me  unhappy,  any  more  than  you  have  ever  done; 
but  sometimes,  dear,  I  am  a  little  afraid  that  you 
will  not  care  enough  about  doing  something  to 
make  me  glad. 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you  what  no  one  else 
knows,  and  not  even  you  should  know  if  it  were 
not  that  I  hope  it  may  help  you  a  little  as  well  as 
pain  you.  I  have  begun  to  write  you  this  many 
times,  but  I  have  always  stopped  when  I  came  to 
this  point,  for  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  not  go 
on,  and  yet  as  if  I  must.  It  is  about  your  father. 

"  You  did  not  know  that  your  father  was  not  a 
happy  man.  You  were  too  young  when  he  died 
to  remember  him  well,  and  he  was  so  careful  before 
you  and  all  the  world  not  to  show  exactly  what  he 
thought  that  you  would  perhaps  not  have  guessed 
at  his  unhappiness  even  if  you  had  been  older. 
But  I  knew  it,  of  course.  And  I  knew,  too,  what 
no  one  else  on  earth  suspects — no  one  till  you  read 
this.  Your  father — I  must  tell  you  bluntly,  or  I 
[34] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

cannot  tell  you  at  all — he  was  not  drowned  by  ac- 
cident, as  they  have  always  thought.  He  killed 
himself,  and  he  did  it  because  he  feared  that  he 
was  going  insane. 

"  I  have  told  you  very  often  how  he  and  three 
of  his  friends  went  out  in  a  little  yacht  on  Lake 
Onondaga.  The  wind  was  strong,  but  nothing 
dangerous.  As  the  boat  turned  the  boom  swung 
round,  knocking  your  father  overboard,  as  they  all 
thought.  They  thought  he  must  have  been 
stunned.  They  did  not  see  him  come  to  the  sur- 
face, and  in  any  case  none  of  them  could  swim. 
So  they  lost  him.  Later  his  body  was  found,  and 
though  it  was  thought  surprising  that  there  were 
no  bruises  on  his  forehead,  they  concluded  that  he 
must  have  been  hurt  in  some  fashion.  No  one  ever 
hinted  at  suicide.  He  was  popular  and  he  was  not 
poor,  and  he  was  thought  to  be  very  happy.  Yes, 
they  none  of  them  dreamed  of  intention  except  me. 
I  was  as  certain,  when  they  brought  me  the  news 
of  his  death,  that  he  had  killed  himself — as  cer- 
tain as  I  was  next  morning,  when  I  had  the  letter 
he  himself  had  posted  before  he  left  the  shore. 

"  His  planning  of  it  was  deliberate  and  very  like 
[35] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

him.  He  had  been  very  careful  for  us — you  and 
me — and  for  all  his  relations;  he  had  taken  every 
precaution  which  would  make  death  certain  and 
yet  apparently  quite  accidental.  When  he  organ- 
ized the  party  he  asked  only  men  whom  he  knew 
could  not  swim.  He  gave  one  of  them  the  tiller, 
took  the  position  he  had  planned  to  take,  and 
waited,  and  when  the  minute  came  he  went  to  his 
death  as  quietly  as  if  he  had  been  going  to  sleep. 
But,  for  all  his  care,  he  wanted  me  to  know — 
nobody  else  but  me.  Till  now  no  one  else  has  ever 
known.  When  the  mail  brought  me  the  letter  in 
the  morning  I  was  so  sure,  even  before  I  opened  it, 
what  he  had  written,  that  I  might  have  burned  it 
without  reading  it,  and  still  I  should  have  known 
all  I  know  now.  I  knew  your  father,  dear,  you  see. 

"  Do  you  wonder,  Francis,  why  I  am  telling  this 
to  you  now?  So  much  as  I  have  already  written 
you  had  a  right  to  know.  This  much,  after  all,  I 
never  hesitated  to  tell  you.  It  is  what  remains  to 
tell  that  hurts  me  so.  But  I  have  prayed — how  I 
have  prayed! — and  I  seem  to  be  doing  right. 
I  know  that  it  is  hard  enough  to  do. 

"  I  have  been  Mrs.  Bradford  so  long  now,  and 
[36] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

since  your  father  died  I  have  grown  so  close  to 
him,  that  it  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  once  I 
meant  to  leave  him.  But  it  is  true.  I  was  not 
happy  with  him ;  I  do  not  think  that  any  woman 
could  have  been  happy  with  him.  Dear,  if  you 
think  my  unhappiness  was  all  my  own  fault,  you 
will  hurt  me  very  much.  I  know  that  in  many  little 
things  I  was  quite,  quite  wrong,  but  I  always  loved 
your  father  very  much,  even  when  I  meant  to  leave 
him.  And  I  did  not  nag  him.  I  was  tactful.  No, 
I  cannot  reproach  myself.  He  was  not  happy,  but 
he  made  his  own  unhappiness,  and  some  day  he  will 
tell  you  so,  too. 

"  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  explain  to  you  why  he 
made  us  both  unhappy,  and  yet  I  must,  for  to  tell 
you  this,  and  to  warn  you,  is  my  only  reason  for 
writing  to  you  now.  For  sometimes,  as  you  have 
grown  older,  I  have  feared,  good  as  you  are  to  me, 
that  you  might  inherit  a  little  of  your  father's 
weakness ;  and  then  I  have  thought  that  at  any  cost 
when  you  were  old  enough  I  would  tell  you  what 
that  weakness  was. 

"  You  know  that  your  father  was  not  very  suc- 
cessful in  the  businesses  he  undertook,  and  that 
[37] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

finally  he  retired  from  them  all  and  lived  upon  the 
rest  of  the  money  which  he  had  inherited,  joined 
to  mine.  It  was  not  a  very  great  deal  at  the  be- 
ginning, but  of  course  it  became  smaller  and 
smaller,  until  when  your  father  died  they  found 
only  enough  to  settle  this  two  thousand  dollars  a 
year  upon  us.  It  was  rather  a  surprise  to  the 
world,  but  it  has  been  enough  for  us,  and  it  will 
be  enough  for  you  till  you  are  able  to  earn  more. 
Your  father's  lack  of  success  did  not  come  from 
indolence,  and  I  haven't  any  fear  of  indolence  in 
you.  One  of  the  delusions  which  beset  him  was 
the  fear  that  he  was  a  coward,  but  that  was  not 
true,  either.  Many  times,  it  is  true,  he  shirked  do- 
ing what  he  might  have  done,  and  many  times — 
oh,  so  many  times  that  toward  the  end  of  his  life 
he  was  hardly  able  to  do  otherwise,  he  did  one  of 
the  most  cowardly  things  in  the  world — he  told 
what  was  not  the  truth.  Yet  it  was  not  cowardly, 
exactly,  as  he  did  it.  But  it  was  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  doing  it  which  terrified  him  and 
hounded  him,  until  at  last  he  felt  that  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  he  went  away. 

"  There  were  two  things  that  never  let  him  rest. 
[38] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

He  always  wondered  what  people  were  thinking 
about  him,  and  he  always  hoped  they  were  prais- 
ing him.  They  are  little  things,  and  in  many  peo- 
ple they  may  honestly  do  good,  but  they  were  so 
developed  in  your  father  that  they  did  him  great 
harm.  He  could  not  do  the  simplest  thing  in 
any  company,  but  especially  in  the  company  of 
strangers,  without  being  fully  conscious  of  their 
attitude  toward  him;  and  in  great  things  he  was 
just  as  conscious.  When  he  asked  me  to  marry 
him  we  were  at  a  dance;  we  were  sitting  out,  and 
there  was  some  girl  near  us  whom  neither  of  us 
knew.  Your  father  told  me  long  afterward,  one 
day  when  he  was  in  one  of  his  self-reproachful 
moods,  that  at  the  time  he  was  asking  me  he  was 
wondering  whether  that  girl  guessed  what  he  was 
talking  of,  from  the  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  he 
smiled  to  deceive  her,  though  he  wished  at  the 
same  time  that  she  could  hear  him.  The  story  may 
have  been  true,  or  he  may  just  have  been  seeking 
some  striking  way  of  expressing  his  detestation  of 
his  own  insincerity.  I  cannot  tell.  But  of  course 
it  was  this  insincerity  which  made  us  both  un- 
happy. When  one  is  really  insincere,  what  is  there 
[39] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

left  in  life?  I  do  not  mean  that  your  father  was 
either  hypocritical  or  malicious.  He  was  always 
gentle-natured.  But  he  was  never  real.  He  did 
what  seemed  to  him  dramatically  right  to  do,  and 
his  intuition  was  so  true  and  fine  that  nearly  every- 
one approved  of  everything  he  did.  I  think  that 
he  might  have  made  a  great  actor.  Some  men,  he 
used  to  tell  me,  saw  through  the  veil  he  hung  up, 
but  no  woman  ever  did  except  myself,  and  he  said 
that  was  because  almost  all  women  were  afflicted 
with  the  same  fault.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  do  not 
think  so. 

"  Well,  dear,  in  the  end  he  tired  of  everything, 
you  see.  Of  course  one  tires  of  everything,  of 
every  emotion,  unless  it  is  real.  If  it  is  not  a  part 
of  him,  if  he  can  stand  on  one  side  and  look  at  it 
and  estimate  it,  he  must  tire  of  it  some  time.  And 
nothing  was  ever  real  with  your  father.  Nothing 
ever  came  so  close  to  him  that  he  could  not  watch 
it  and  balance  the  meaning  of  it.  Once,  a  little 
while  after  you  were  born,  I  was  very  ill.  Your 
father  was  very  sorry  for  me,  but  I  saw  that  he 
was  thinking,  too,  how  he  ought  to  act  and  what 
he  ought  to  do.  He  did  the  right  things  always, 
[40] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

but  not  because  he  could  not  help  it,  only  because 
he  saw  they  were  the  right  things  to  do.  I  began 
to  wonder  and  watch  then.  It  was  a  great  pity 
that  I  ever  guessed.  If  I  could  have  been  kept 
from  seeing  we  might  have  turned  our  lives  very 
differently.  Yet  I  am  not  sure.  The  worst  is,  I 
am  not  sure  of  anything  about  him.  I  am  not  sure 
that  he  loved  me.  I  am  not  even  sure  that,  with 
all  his  careful  planning,  he  wanted  to  die.  He 
must  have  been  really  in  earnest — he  must  have 
been,  he  must  have  been!  He  couldn't  have 
thought  of  anything  then,  except  that  we  were 
estranged,  and  life  meant  nothing  more  to  him. 
Yet  if  he  did  not  care  for  anything  but  death,  why 
did  he  write  me  at  the  last?  Why  did  he  not  leave 
me  to  think  it  was  accident?  I  should  not  have 
thought  so,  but  I  should  have  been  able  to  hope 
so.  It  is  terrible  to  write  so.  I  do  it  only  that  you 
may  see  how  much  I  care  about  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  now. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  be  honest  with  your- 
self!    Don't  speak,  or  act,  or  think  for  any  effect 
upon  anyone  else!     If  you  sacrifice  your  reputa- 
tion, if  you  sacrifice  a  friendship,  still  keep  true  to 
[41] 


THE  CHAMELEON 
yourself.  Dear  boy,  is  it  foolish  to  tell  you  this? 
I  know  that  it  is  needless ;  I  know  that  you  will  be 
genuine  and  sincere.  This  is  only  my  heart's  cry 
to  let  you  know  what  my  sorrow  would  be  if  you 
were  not.  For  I  love  you,  dear.  Aimee  Curtis 
Bradford." 

He  shuffled  the  sheets  together  mechanically  and 
replaced  them  in  the  envelope.  "  To  my  son.  To 
be  opened  on  the  evening  before  he  enters  upon 
the  practice  of  his  profession."  The  handwriting, 
with  its  firm,  fine  delicacy,  was  very  like  the  little 
mother,  whose  eyes  especially  he  remembered — 
eyes  which  looked  so  clearly  out  upon  the  world. 
This,  then,  was  why  she  had  been  so  uncompromis- 
ing with  the  people  about  them — and  with  him. 
This  was  the  source  of  her  reputation  for  severity 
and  hardness.  She  insisted  upon  exact  justice  at 
any  cost.  She  had  shut  herself  away  from  him 
for  three  days  once  when  he  told  her  a  little  lie. 
He  had  repeated  an  experience  of  his  in  school,  and 
a  clever  thing  he  had  said.  There  had  really  been 
a  foundation  for  his  story,  only  he  had  misstated 
a  little  to  make  it  sound  better.  He  winced  still 
at  the  scorn  in  her  eyes  when  she  found  him  out. 
[42] 


BRADFORD  READS  HIS  LETTER 

"  It  takes  courage  to  lie  boldly,"  she  said ;  "  but 
any  coward  can  twist  the  truth  a  little."  How 
often  he  had  thought  of  that  since  then!  And 
this  was  her  reason.  His  eyes  dewed  over  as  he  re- 
membered her,  and  he  dashed  his  hand  across  them. 
"  At  least  one  thing  about  me  was  genuine — my 
love  for  her,"  he  thought,  proudly.  "  Anyone 
could  see  that." 

As  he  looked  at  his  watch  it  was  five  minutes  to 
one,  and  he  rose,  meaning  to  think  the  letter  over 
in  his  berth.  There  was  a  sudden  upbending  of 
the  seat  on  which  he  sat.  "  Something  wrong !  " 
flashed  through  his  mind,  so  quickly  that  it  pre- 
ceded the  grinding  roar,  the  smashing,  tossing 
lurches,  the  rapid  dislocating  series  of  jolts,  which 
told  him  what  the  trouble  was.  He  was  shaken  to 
the  floor,  and  dug  his  nails  into  it.  The  cover  of 
the  ice-water  stand  struck  him  and  bruised  his  face. 
The  lights,  which  had  hitherto  endured,  now  shot 
suddenly  out.  There  was  a  crash,  and  a  choking 
stream  of  cold  water  deluged  him  as  the  stand  fol- 
lowed the  cover.  Then,  by  a  final  twist  and  heave, 
Bradford  was  thrown  violently  against  the  side 
opposite  to  the  window,  lay  an  instant  conscious  of 
stillness,  fell  and  fell  endlessly  into  oblivion. 
[43] 


Chapter  Three 

A   LITTLE  SINGING 

The  instant  that  he  recovered  knowledge  and 
scrambled  to  his  feet  every  square  inch  of  his  body 
seemed  alive  with  nerves  sharply  acute,  so  that  he 
could  feel  and  hear  and  even  smell  more  keenly 
than  ever  before.  The  car,  though  it  was  at  rest, 
quivered  under  him;  a  very  faint  shrill  snarl  of 
steam  pierced  to  his  ear-drums,  and  he  knew  that 
somewhere  the  pipes  were  twisted  off.  He  fancied 
the  pungent  odor  of  it  in  his  nostrils.  A  quick 
vision  of  flame  bursting  out  past  him,  of  red 
tongues  flicking  closer  and  closer,  swam  so  vividly 
before  his  eyes  that  he  shut  them  involuntarily  in 
the  darkness.  A  scream — the  first  human  sound  he 
had  heard — from  somewhere  in  the  car  drove  them 
open  with  a  wedge,  and  spurred  every  fibre  of  him 
to  escape.  The  flames  were  not  in  the  compart- 
ment, as  he  saw,  looking  fearfully  around,  yet  it 
[44] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

was  not  so  black  as  he  had  remembered  it.  He 
looked  up.  The  car  was  so  turned  that  the  win- 
dow slanted  toward  the  sky,  and  there,  round  as 
the  bull's-eye  of  a  target,  the  moon,  was  shining  in 
at  him.  He  tried  the  door,  but  the  wrenching  had 
jammed  it  in  some  way,  so  that  it  would  not  open. 
He  lifted  the  broken  water-cooler,  and  with  all  his 
strength  slammed  it  against  the  window,  so  that 
both  panes  broke  outward  and  fell  with  a  clatter, 
leaving  ragged  edges  of  heavy  glass  all  around. 
Bradford  hammered  feverishly  at  them  with  his 
clumsy  tool  until  most  of  them  were  beaten  away. 
Then  he  sprang  and  clutched  the  lower  side  and 
drew  himself  up.  Slivers  of  glass  remaining 
slashed  his  hands,  tore  his  clothes,  caught  at  him 
everywhere,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  them.  The 
inward  vision  of  those  flying  flames  was  hurrying 
him  forward  as  automatically  as  a  machine.  „.  It  was 
easy  for  him,  out  of  training  though  he  was,  to 
pull  his  slim  body  through  the  opening,  to  jerk  his 
long  legs  after  him,  to  slide  down  the  steep  angle 
of  the  car.  He  lighted  upon  his  feet,  and  the 
danger  for  him  was  over. 

This  is   what  he   saw.      On   one  side  of  him, 
[45] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

dropping  away,  sloped  a  gully  bank,  at  an  angle 
of  forty-five  degrees,  to  a  little  stream  choked  with 
bushes,  where  the  water  gurgled  in  the  moonlight, 
and  shot  distorted  images  of  her  silvery  roundness 
back  to  him.  Beyond  the  creek  rose  another  bank, 
but  not  bare  and  gravelly,  as  this  was;  all  dark 
and  gloomy,  rather,  with  underbrush  and  trees. 
Because  Bradford  had  landed  facing  all  this  he 
saw  it — peaceful  and  lonely  and  quite  unterrify- 
ing.  Then  he  turned.  The  wheels  of  the  Pullman 
stuck  out  helplessly  before  him.  Farther  forward 
another  car  also  lay  upon  its  side,  nose  pointed 
downward.  They  were  pathetically  like  struggling 
animals  which  had  fallen  and  could  not  rise  again. 
Still  farther  on,  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  the 
stream  was  crammed  with  debris — piled,  box-like 
masses  of  wood  and  iron,  here  huddled  shapelessly, 
and  there  flinging  out  a  gesticulatory  timber  or  an 
iron  rod,  silhouetted  insanely  against  the  pale  gray 
of  the  sky.  Every  detail  was  tossed  to  him  with 
a  relentless  clearness.  And,  as  he  looked,  the  ter- 
rible loneliness  of  mystery  and  fear  enthralled 
him.  Not  a  human  being  was  in  his  sight.  He 
guessed  that  he  had  fainted,  but  he  had  no  way  of 
[46] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

telling  for  how  long ;  it  seemed  to  him  wholly  pos- 
sible that  it  might  have  been  for  hours,  and  again 
the  visions  assailed  him — visions  of  all  the  men  and 
women  he  had  passed  among  and  listened  to  and 
wondered  over,  so  short  a  while  ago,  now  all  lying 
crumpled  and  dead  in  this  heap  of  ruins.  He 
sweated  so  that  his  eyes  filled,  and  he  pulled  his 
sleeve  across  them  to  clear  them.  When  he  looked 
again  the  wreck  was  alive  with  people,  bleeding 
and  crying  and  crawling  toward  him. 

But  it  was  only  one  man.  As  he  came  closer 
Bradford  saw  that  it  was  the  conductor  of  the 
Pullman.  One  of  his  arms  hung  limp.  Bradford 
ran  a  step  or  two  toward  him.  "  My  God !  My 
God !  "  he  cried,  involuntarily.  "  You've  broken 
your  arm !  You've  broken  your  arm !  "  The  crip- 
pled limb  fascinated  his  eyes. 

"  Have  you  got  a  match  ? "  asked  the  con- 
ductor. 

Bradford  stared  at  him  in  wonderment.  Yet  he 
thought,  stupidly,  if  this  was  a  dream  one  question 
was  as  sensible  as  another. 

The  conductor's  voice  went  up  an  octave,  and 
broke  into  a  scream.  "  Got  any  matches,  you  of 
[47] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

careless  parentage?  you  unfortunate,  predestined, 
unmentionably  qualified  fool?  Quick,  can't  you? 
Do  you  think  this  is  a  sky-rocketted,  roman-can- 
dled,  powder-magazined  Sunday-school  picnic? " 
Bradford,  still  in  a  daze,  felt  mechanically  in  his 
pocket  and  found  his  match-safe,  which  he  drew 
out  and  offered  to  the  conductor.  But  the  latter 
motioned  it  back. 

"  Can  you  run?    I  can't;  my  leg's  to  the  bad." 

Bradford  shook  himself  all  over,  tentatively. 
"  I  think  I'm  all  right ;  I  can  run." 

"  Then  run  like  hell,  will  you  ?  Get  down  the 
track  a  quarter-mile  and  build  a  fire  between  the 
rails.  God  knows  what  we'll  have  on  top  of  this 
mess  next.  Eleven  is  due  in  thirty  minutes.  Watch 
the  fire,  and  when  you  see  a  headlight  stand  be- 
tween it  and  the  fire  and  wave  at  'em — so." 

Bradford  began  to  run,  in  a  daze,  away  from 
the  wreck.  When  he  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  he 
stopped  irresolutely.  The  thought  struck  him  that 
he  ought  to  go  back  and  try  to  get  some  of  those 
women  out.  That  was  the  least  a  man  could  do. 
The  girl  in  the  gray  dress !  She,  too,  was  in  that 
hopeless  welter!  As,  with  her,  the  passengers  lost 
[48] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

their  vagueness  of  outline,  and  became  individual 
— Murdoch,  and  Bates  the  college  professor,  and 
the  woman  with  the  little  freckled  daughter,  and 
the  two  boys  from  Princeton,  and  the  old  lady  with 
the  grudge  against  the  physicians — he  looked  un- 
steadily back.  A  light — two  lights — were  moving 
about  the  wreck  now.  He  groaned  and  ran  on. 
When  he  judged  that  he  had  gone  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  into  the  darkness  he  collected  leaves  and  twigs 
and  set  fire  to  them.  The  road  followed  the  gully 
backward,  so  there  was  plenty  of  brush.  Pres- 
ently he  had  the  flames  leaping  and  glowing  red 
up  and  down  the  rails.  The  glare  was  like  blood, 
and  it  acted  on  him  curiously,  suggesting  what  he 
feared  to  see  when  he  went  back,  so  that  he  turned 
very  sick.  But  he  worked  on,  staring  all  the  time 
down  the  glimmering  path  for  the  coming  of  the 
headlight,  half  dreading  it  and  half  hoping  for  it, 
as  knights  of  old  waited  and  watched  for  the  eye 
of  the  dragon  they  had  to  fight.  Still  the  light  did 
not  come,  and  presently  a  brakeman  with  a  lantern 
relieved  him. 

"How    is    it    back    there?"    asked    Bradford, 
eagerly. 

[49] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Bad,"  answered  the  brakeman,  curtly.  "  You 
go  back ;  maybe  they  can  use  you,  if  you  got  your 
head  with  you.  Most  of  'em  ain't." 

So  Bradford  ran  back.  First  he  looked  at  his 
watch,  wondering  if  it  were  not  nearly  morning, 
but  it  was  only  half-past  one.  Less  than  an  hour 
ago  he  had  been  quietly  reading  his  letter.  He  re- 
called that  in  a  daze,  it  seemed  so  long  since  then. 

The  moon,  almost  down,  showed  him  a  very  dif- 
ferent scene  when  he  turned  the  curve  which  had 
thrown  them  off.  The  gully  below,  the  bank  above, 
and  the  wreck  itself  were  swarming  with  figures, 
thick  and  restless  as  ants.  Here  a  small  man,  clad 
only  in  the  upper  half  of  a  night-shirt,  was  aim- 
lessly running  to  and  fro,  crying  inarticulately. 
His  bare  feet  were  bleeding,  but  it  was  not  pain 
which  ailed  him.  A  woman  wrapped  in  a  blanket 
sat,  a  triangle  of  misery,  upon  the  ridge  of  one 
of  the  cars,  whither  she  had  climbed,  and  rocked 
to  and  fro  moaning.  Two  men  chopped  away  the 
sides  of  each  car,  searching  for  someone  possibly 
still  prisoned  there.  But  the  crowd  was  forward, 
near  the  water,  where  the  engine,  the  baggage  and 
mail-cars,  and  the  day-coach  had  gone  down  to- 
[50] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

gether  in  inextricable  destruction.  Snapping  their 
couplings,  they  had  plunged  right  down  forty  feet 
to  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  There  was  the  raw 
force  of  the  accident.  There  the  three  doctors 
were  busy.  There,  as  he  hastened  forward,  Brad- 
ford could  see  Murdoch,  stripped  to  his  shoes  and 
trousers,  the  enormous  chest  of  him  heaving  and 
sweating  and  straining;  now  he  was  lifting  at  an 
improvised  lever,  now  encouraging  some  poor  fel- 
low underneath,  now  directing  the  efforts  of  a  vol- 
unteer gang  which  worked  at  the  other  end  of  the 
car;  never  stopping,  never  wasting  a  motion,  ex- 
haling confidence  from  his  mere  mass  and  strength. 
Bradford  stopped  a  second,  terrified  yet  fasci- 
nated, as  he  had  been  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
conductor's  broken  arm,  where  the  doctors  were 
doing  their  work.  A  voice  at  his  elbow,  inde- 
scribably piercing,  altogether  inhuman,  smote  on 
his  strained  ears,  and  he  jumped  around.  The  man 
in  the  torn  night-shirt  had  followed  him,  and  now 
laid  a  shaking  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  never  believed  in  a  hell !  "  he  cried,  shrilly. 
"  I  never  believed  in  it !  "    He  stared  at  the  doctors 
with  frightened,  unreasoning  eyes — the  eyes  of  a 
[51] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

wild  animal  in  terror.  Suddenly  he  flung  up  his 
hands.  "  I  never  believed  in  it !  "  he  repeated,  in- 
sistently. 

The  doctor  nearest  Bradford  turned.  "  Hold 
him,"  he  said,  sharply,  and  Bradford,  though  his 
flesh  crept,  seized  the  man  in  both  arms  in  spite  of 
his  struggles.  The  doctor  caught  the  man's  little 
finger  in  both  hands  and  wrenched  it  backward 
once.  The  sharp  snap  of  a  breaking  bone  fol- 
lowed. The  man  cried  out  in  agony,  but  the  shock 
had  recalled  his  wits,  and  it  was  the  cry  of  a  man 
in  pain,  no  longer  a  brute  only.  Bradford  shiv- 
ered so  that  he  lost  his  hold  upon  him,  and  the  man 
in  the  night-shirt,  nursing  his  broken  finger, 
stumbled  away  quietly.  The  doctor  watched  him 
a  moment.  "  I  thought  that  would  do  it,"  he  said, 
in  a  satisfied  fashion,  and  turned  again  to  his 
work.  Bradford  said  nothing.  He  wondered 
blankly  of  the  girl  in  gray — had  she  still  been  on 
the  train?  Where  was  she  now,  and  in  what 
plight?  There  was  no  way  for  him  to  look  for 
her.  None  of  his  thoughts  were  clear,  though  his 
senses  remained  almost  preternaturally  fine. 

The  hurly-burly  continued,  till  the  moon  had 
[52] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

slipped  down  the  sky — the  crash  of  axes  and  the 
ripping  of  wood,  the  oaths  of  those  who  worked 
and  the  moans  of  those  who  waited;  the  plash,  in 
every  silent  second,  of  the  water  where  it  strug- 
gled by  its  sudden  barriers.  Bradford,  in  a  dream, 
all  the  intellect  of  him  vanished,  sat  and  saw  and 
heard  it  all.  When  the  others  noticed  him  they 
thought  him  hurt,  perhaps,  or  even  out  of  his 
senses  for  the  time.  But  every  tiny  fraction  of  his 
emotional  being  was  keenly  alive.  His  nerves  an- 
swered to  every  stroke  of  the  axe,  and  every  cry 
was  like  a  call  to  him  while  he  sat  helpless  and 
staring.  An  Irishman  from  the  day-coach,  who 
had  gone  to  sleep  drunk,  and  with  the  luck  of 
drunken  men  come  out  from  that  hell  of  tangled 
cars  unscratched,  strode  unsteadily  by,  singing: 

"  An?  the  garmints  that  he  wure, 
They  was  not  at  all  befure, 
An1  rather  liss  than  half 'uv  that  behind." 

Thus  he  warbled.  "  Bedad,  'tis  thrue  uv  me- 
silf ! "  He  craned  his  neck  backward  earnestly 
to  contemplate  the  damage  he  had  sustained  in  the 
rear,  and  one  of  the  doctors  laughed.  Bradford, 
taking  his  cue,  unconsciously  threw  back  his  head, 
[53] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

too,  and  laughed — laughed  at  great  length,  un- 
musically, loudly,  till  the  doctor  cried  sternly, 
"  Here,  stop  that !  "  Bradford's  laughter  ceased 
as  suddenly  as  water  turned  off  at  the  tap,  and  he 
fell  to  wondering  who  had  laughed.  And  then, 
when  he  was  rapidly  nearing  the  border  of  the  land 
whither  the  man  with  the  torn  night-shirt  had 
wandered,  a  question,  flung  out  to  anyone,  pierced 
through  to  his  understanding. 

"  Can't  somebody  sing?  God  above,  men,  sing 
something !  "  The  voice  was  resonant  and  com- 
manding; there  was  nothing  despairing  or  queru- 
lous about  it.  Bradford  knew  it  for  Murdoch's. 
He  jumped  up  as  if  some  spring  within  him  had 
been  pressed. 

"  Why,  I  can  sing,"  he  said  aloud.  He  waited 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  without  premeditation,  en- 
tered upon  the  first  bars  of  "  Mandalay."  But  his 
voice  was  not  quite  at  his  bidding,  and  wavered. 

"  Shut  up  that  d d  cheeping !  "  shouted  one 

of  the  axe-swingers  near  him,  and  Bradford  paused 
obediently.    But  a  moment  later  he  heard  Murdoch 
cry  out  in  hearty  encouragement,  "  Go  on — sing !  " 
and  he  called  himself  together  and  sang. 
[54] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

Bradford  could  sing.  There  had  been  mo- 
ments, in  the  old  days,  when  the  diapason  of  his 
bass  went  rolling  and  rolling  through  the  hall, 
and  women  leaned  forward  and  men  held  their 
breath  to  miss  no  note  of  it;  when  he  found  their 
hearts  and  played  upon  them,  till  their  eyes  were 
bright  and  wet  by  turns,  and  the  little  concert  of 
the  college  Glee  Club  was  transported  out  of  the 
realm  of  comedy  into  the  country  of  Song.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  the  president's  wife,  after 
they  lost  their  little  girl,  had  come  up  to  him  very 
quietly  and  said,  with  a  break  in  her  voice,  "  Thank 
you,  Mr.  Bradford,"  and  he  had  stammered,  for 
once  at  a  loss  for  words,  "  Why,  we  all  loved  her, 
Mrs.  Craven;  we  couldn't  help  it,"  and  she  had 
answered  simply,  "  I  knew  that  from  your  sing- 
ing ;  it  is  that  that  comforts  me."  There  had  been 
a  time  when  the  team  won  in  the  face  of  what 
seemed  sure  defeat,  and  at  the  celebration  after- 
ward they  put  Frankie  Bradford  up  on  a  barrel 
beside  the  bonfire,  and  he  gave  them  their  trium- 
phal marching-song,  till  they  rocked  the  sky  with 
their  cheering,  and  drowned  the  verses,  and 
snatched  him  from  the  barrel  and  charioted  him 
[55] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

about  on  their  shoulders  with  the  captain  of  the 
eleven,  shouting  that  never,  no  never,  no  never, 
till  the  sun  grew  old  and  the  stars  grew  cold, 
should  the  fame  of  Frankie  Bradford  die.  But  as 
Bradford  stood  there  on  that  torn  gullyside,  with 
the  moon  down  now,  while  the  axes  fell  and  the 
shouting  died  away,  he  felt  that  he  had  never  sung 
before.  This,  this  was  living — to  pour  himself 
out,  while  all  around  him  listened  and  were  soothed 
and  comforted !  He  sang  them  all  the  songs  he 
knew,  grave  and  gay,  quick  and  slow,  the  marches 
and  the  lullabies,  cradle-songs  and  serenades.  And 
then  he  turned  to  hymns.  He  blessed  the  days 
when  he  had  sung  in  the  college  choir.  He  gave 
them  now  the  odd  old  melodies  that  are  the  echoes 
of  our  childhood  to  us  all — if  they  are  doggerel, 
why,  childhood  is  bathos,  then — the  dear  old  melo- 
dies which  confute  so  wholly,  so  serenely  the  ma- 
terialism and  paganism  and  agnosticism  and  isms 
one  and  all  which  we  have  learned  to  turn  to  in 
these  latter  reasoning  days.  He  gave  them  "  Rock 
of  Ages,"  "  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  "  Jesus, 
Lover  of  my  Soul,"  "  Shall  We  Gather  at  the 
River  " ;  he  sang  on,  the  steady,  strong,  compel- 
[56] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

ling  undertone  to  all  the  wild  ugly  noises  of  that 
night  of  terror.  And  at  last  came  the  wrecking- 
train,  with  the  reporters  and  the  doctors — so  runs 
the  order  of  rescue  nowadays — and  the  work  was 
taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the  volunteers. 

So  many  were  hurt  that  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  all  the  men  to  find  places  in  the  car.  Murdoch 
and  some  of  the  others  volunteered  to  walk  down 
the  track  four  miles  to  the  little  town,  whence  one 
of  the  train  crew  had  telegraphed  for  help.  Mur- 
doch, now  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  came  up  and 
shook  hands  with  Bradford. 

"  I  never  saw  a  better  gang  of  men  than  this," 
he  said ;  "  but  you  are  worth  a  dozen  of  us.  By 
the  Lord  Harry,  if  it  isn't  the  young  fellow  in  the 
smoker !  "  He  shook  hands  again.  "  What's  your 
name — Bradford,  ain't  it?  I've  got  my  niece  back 
here — no,  she's  not  hurt  a  particle,  not  even 
scared,  she  says — she  wanted  me  to  thank  you  for 
your  singing.  Won't  you  come  back  and  let  me 
introduce  you,  eh?  " 

Bradford  was  shaken,  now  that  the  glow  was 
gone,  and  he  was  only  one  unnoticed  among  the 
others.  The  size  and  calm  of  the  pickle-maker 
[57] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

grated  upon  his  nerves.  There  were  dead  and 
dying  people  all  around  them ;  in  the  name  of  God, 
was  this  a  time  for  introductions? 

"  I — I'm  afraid  I  don't  feel  quite  up  to  it,"  he 
said.  "  I'm — well,  I'm  rather  shaky,  you  know." 

"  Not  hurt  much?  " 

"  No,  not  hurt.     But  shaky." 

Murdoch  smiled  contentedly.  "  I  understand. 
We've  all  been  on  the  stretch,  and  now  we're  let  go, 
so  we're  crumpled — just  like  a  string,  that's  all." 

Some  one  touched  Bradford's  arm. 

"  I  am  the  correspondent  for  the  Carfax  Mer- 
cury. Do  any  of  you  gentlemen  happen  to  know 
the  name  of  the  man  who  was  singing  just  now — 
cheering  on  the  work  of  rescue,  and  that  sort  of 
thing?  " 

"  No,"  said  Bradford,  curtly.  He  felt  amuse- 
ment in  the  man's  tone,  and  it  jarred  on  him. 

"  I  know  it !  "  said  Murdoch,  turning  back.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  Bradford's  shoulder.  "  This  is 
your  man,  and  unless  you  give  him  a  good  send-off 
you'll  settle  with  me.  His  name  is  Bradford.  I 
had  his  card  a  while  ago,  but  I've  left  that  and  my 
other  valuables  in  the  care  of  the  Carfax  and  Al- 
[58] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

bans  Railroad."  He  pointed  back  to  the  tumbled 
cars.  "  But  I  think  I'll  not  need  it  to  remember 
him  by.  Whenever  I  begin  to  forget  his  name 
I'll  just  think  of  him  halloing  there  in  the  moon- 
light like  a  d d  pipe-organ,  and  the  rest  of  us 

rested  just  to  hear  him.  He  was  worth  a  dozen  of 
any  of  us." 

"  Say  twenty,"  observed  the  whiskered  Bates. 
He  was  badly  cut  over  the  eye,  but  appeared  to 
ignore  the  fact.  "  Can  you  oblige  me,  sir,  since 
you  have  your  information,  with  a  cigarette?  I 
fear  that  mine  are  crushed.  Moreover,  I  never 
carry  any  in  my  pajamas,  which  is  an  oversight 
when  one  travels  on  the  Carfax  and  Albans  Rail- 
way." 

The  correspondent  felt  in  his  pocket  eagerly. 
"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  haven't  got  one,  sir. 
What  did  you  say  your  name  was  ? "  he  asked 
Bradford. 

"  Francis  Howell  Bradford."  He  felt  odd  to  be 
giving  it  so,  and  yet  not  unpleased,  either.  "  I 
have  some  cigarettes  here,  by  the  way."  He  passed 
out  his  box,  and  they  fell  upon  it. 

"  Did  I  say  you  were  worth  twenty  of  us  ?  " 
[59] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

mourned  Bates.  "  Pardon  me ;  I  meant  a  hun- 
dred." 

"  I  make  it  two ! "  cried  somebody  else,  gayly. 
Somehow  their  banter  lightened  the  situation  for 
Bradford  and  lessened  the  tension  of  his  nerves; 
he  became  completely  at  his  ease  again.  He  an- 
swered the  reporter's  questions  readily  and  care- 
lessly. When  they  had  all  given  their  names,  and 
spoken  as  they  felt  inclined,  they  felt  better. 

"  I  woke  up  on  my  head,"  said  the  man  with  the 
professor,  "  and  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  was 
that  it  served  me  right  for  travelling  on  the  Car- 
fax and  Albans." 

Then  they  set  forward  up  the  track.  They  had 
witnessed  blood  and  death,  and  just  missed  the  clip 
of  the  final  shears,  but  they  were  Americans,  and 
so  the  past  was  past.  Half  of  them  were  bare- 
footed, and  some  wore  nothing  but  a  blanket. 
Only  one  man  beside  Bradford  was  fully  dressed. 
With  them  trudged  the  little  man  with  the  broken 
finger;  he  was  now  entirely  recovered  from  his 
madness,  and  cherished  his  hurt  tenderly. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  break  that ! M  he 
repeated,  in  a  troubled  fashion.  "  No,  gentlemen, 
[60] 


A     LITTLE     SINGING 

I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  do  that  at  all."  Brad- 
ford laughed  finally.  "  /  know,"  he  said,  and  told 
them.  He  told  the  story  dramatically  and  well, 
adding  a  little  color  here  and  there;  they  all  lis- 
tened, and  stared  at  the  little  man — all  except 
Bates,  who  looked  at  Bradford  instead,  and  puffed 
away  on  his  cigarette.  "  You  don't  say !  "  was  the 
little  man's  only  comment.  He  had  picked  up 
somewhere  a  blanket  and  a  straw  hat,  and  con- 
fronted the  coming  dawn,  a  comical  figure.  But 
somehow  the  humor  of  it  lessened  as  one  saw  the 
trouble  in  his  eyes.  "  You  don't  say ! "  he  whis- 
pered under  his  breath,  and  looked  himself  over 
curiously.  No  doubt  he  wondered  where  he  had 
been  in  those  few  minutes.  No  wonder  the  prob- 
lem puzzled  him. 

The  walk  was  long.  The  dark  east  grew 
streaked  and  then  rosy  before  they  ended  it.  When 
they  reached  the  village  of  Hoopsboro,  their  desti- 
nation, Murdoch  took  command. 

"  We  want  a  drink  first  and  then  some  clothes." 

Early  as  it  was,  half  the  town  was  up  to  greet 

them,  and  an  excess  of  guides  piloted  the  whole 

company  to  the  only  saloon  in  the  town — a  grimy 

[61] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

building,  half  hotel,  half  bar.  Many  of  the  bu- 
colic inhabitants  crowded  staring  in  behind.  With 
their  glasses  before  them,  Murdoch  made  them  all  a 
little  speech. 

"  Boys,  we're  safely  out  of  a  bad  hole.  But 
there's  a  lot  back  there  still — as  good  as  we  are, 
not  so  fortunate,  that's  all.  We  did  all  we  could 
for  them ;  we  needn't  reproach  ourselves.  Still,  it's 
a  sorrowful  time  for  many  a  man  and  woman. 
There's  only  one  toast  we  can  drink  now,  boys ;  I'd 
say  drink  it  hats  off,  but  I  see  we're  all  of  us  bare- 
headed, anyway.  It's  pity  for  those  who  are 
gone,  and  gratitude  to  God,  who  pulled  us 
through."  His  big,  strong  voice  was  reverent. 
They  drank  silently. 

Murdoch  wiped  his  lips.  "  Now,"  he  said,  "  for 
some  clothes." 


[62] 


AFTER  THE  WEECK 

The  little  freckled  girl,  whom  Bradford  had  prayed 
might  not  become  a  nuisance  ere  the  journey's 
end,  would  prove  no  annoyance  to  anyone  again. 
Her  mother  sat  tearless  in  one  of  the  coaches,  while 
the  old  lady  who  denied  the  utility  of  physicians 
tried  feebly  to  comfort  her.  The  two  Princetoni- 
ans  turned  out  to  be  much  like  other  boys,  ready 
with  sympathy  a  little  touched  by  awe.  Tragedy, 
sweeping  into  the  lives  of  all  of  them,  brushed 
away  the  little  affectations  one  constructs  with  so 
much  care,  and  left  each  man  or  woman  as  he  was — 
weak  or  strong,  silly  or  sensible,  callous  or  loving. 
Some  joked,  some  swore,  some  wept,  some  worked. 
They  had  the  papers  at  a  little  junction  whither 
they  had  crawled  by  noon,  and  there  learned  first 
the  full  force  of  the  accident,  and  the  names  of 
[63] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

their  fellow-passengers  who  had  so  abruptly  been 
hurried  upon  a  longer  journey  than  they  meant 
to  take.  There  were  fourteen  dead  in  the  two 
mournful  cars  ahead;  there  were  forty-two  hurt. 
But  of  those  in  the  Pullman,  only  the  little  freckled 
girl  had  been  killed.  Bradford  saw,  in  one 
glimpse,  the  girl  whom  he  had  noticed  and  won- 
dered over  the  afternoon  before.  So  she  had  not 
left  the  train,  he  speculated.  He  still  wondered 
who  she  was,  but  the  shock  of  the  accident  dulled 
the  edge  of  his  wonder.  He  saw  Murdoch  go  up 
and  speak  to  her,  and  she  smiled  as  she  answered. 
He  reflected  with  half  a  sneer  and  half  a  smile 
that  Murdoch  had  probably  spoken  to  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  on  the  train.  There  were  few, 
indeed,  whom  he  had  not  pressed  to  drink  of  the 
fusel-oil  which  passed  in  Hoopsboro  for  whiskey. 
He  wore  a  black  alpaca  coat,  of  the  sort  book- 
keepers affect;  a  tie  of  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow garnished  his  throat.  He  had  led  the  raid 
upon  the  "  general  store  "  of  Hoopsboro,  and  these 
were  among  the  spoils  of  war.  The  big  pickle- 
maker  put  in  the  morning  in  exhortation ;  "  no 
compromise  for  injury  "  was  his  theme.  He  of- 
[64] 


AFTER     THE     WRECK 

fered  to  advance  money  to  fight  any  and  all  cases, 
and  damned  the  railroad  interminably. 

Rapid  events  had  left  Bradford  little  time  to 
think  over  his  letter.  Yet  all  the  time  it  was  in 
the  back  of  his  head;  and  on  the  slow  journey 
home  he  found  a  spot  where  he  could  be  alone  to 
consider  it.  So  he  fancied ;  but  he  reckoned  with- 
out the  pickle-maker,  who  routed  him  out,  and 
insisted  once  more  upon  shaking  hands. 

"  If  the  papers  don't  give  you  a  send-off  that'll 
keep  the  town  awake,"  he  said,  "  my  name  isn't 
John  Murdoch.  Have  a  drink."  Bradford  de- 
clined, but  was  overborne,  and  drank,  shuddering, 
wishing  that  Murdoch  might  be  drowned  in  his  own 
pickle-vats — a  sentiment  which,  however,  he  took 
some  pains  to  conceal.  When  the  papers  came,  he 
discovered  that  Murdoch  had  been  right.  There 
was  the  send-off  indeed.  Like  the  rest,  he  hurried 
through  the  long  accounts  to  find  his  own  name. 
He  passed  over  the  solemn  roll  of  the  dead,  with 
all  its  scrupulosity  and  its  inaccuracy,  and  its  sad 
and  fatal  prophecies — "  cannot  recover  " ;  "  will 
die."  In  the  florid  and  spectacular  account  which 
followed,  he  read  of  himself  under  the  head-line 
[65] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Singing  Amid  the  Sorrow  " ;  and  editorially,  too, 
he  found  that  he  was  commented  upon.  He  and 
Murdoch  were  singled  out  for  praise.  "  Nowhere," 
ran  the  curious  journalese,  "  as  in  scenes  of  suffer- 
ing and  sorrow  can  we  so  plainly  discern  that  tie 
of  brotherhood  which  unites  all  men,  from  the  emi- 
grant in  the  smoker  to  the  aristocrat  in  the  Pull- 
man. .  .  .  Where  all  were  heroes 
it  would  be  invidious  to  praise  individuals.  Yet 
the  names  of  some  stand  out,  bright  spots  even 
amid  the  brightness.  .  .  .  Francis  H.  Brad- 
ford. .  .  ."  There  was  much  more.  He  read 
with  avidity ;  he  smiled  his  superior  smile  at  the 
frescoed  English,  but  he  was  immensely  pleased. 
It  was  while  he  was  perusing  the  account  of  his 
own  deeds  that  he  felt  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looking  up  saw  again  the  beaming  face  of  Mur- 
doch. 

"  Well,  they've  done  well  by  us,  haven't  they  ?  I 
must  have  scared  that  young  chap  last  night 
when  I  threatened  him  with  sudden  death  if  he 
didn't  give  us  three  cheers,  eh?  What  do  you 
think  of  it?  " 

"  They've  made  me  a  tenor,  for  some  reason," 
[66] 


AFTER     THE     WRECK 

laughed  Bradford.  "  What  a  pity  a  man  can't 
have  his  name  copyrighted,  so  that  the  newspapers 
couldn't  print  it  without  his  consent." 

"  You  like  people  to  let  you  alone,  do 
you?  " 

"  I  won't  say  that.  But  I  don't  care  to  have  a 
reporter's  finger-marks  all  over  my  concerns.  Does 
anybody  ?  " 

"  Why  not,  when  it's  so  much  advertisement? 
Now  they  play  me  up  in  here ;  I  suppose  you  no- 
ticed it.  What  of  it?  After  all,  it's  true;  I  was 
there,  and  I  pulled  a  few  out.  Why  shouldn't  I 
have  the  credit  of  it?  Somebody  must  toot  my 
horn,  if  people  are  to  know  that  I'm  around,  and 
when  I  can  get  it  tooted  for  me,  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  object." 

"  Neither  do  I,  if  you  like  the  tunes  they  play. 
Personally,  I'd  rather  make  my  own  music,  I 
think." 

"  I  saw  last  night,"  said  Murdoch,  reminiscently, 
"  that  you  hated  to  give  that  chap  your  name.  I 
liked  that.  It  wouldn't  sell  many  pickles,  that 
policy,  but  I  kind  of  liked  it  just  the  same.  Oh, 
don't  deny  it.  You  ain't  the  first  man  I've  met 
[67] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

who  thinks  my  billboards  are  too  numerous."  He 
chuckled.  "  Man  said  to  me  a  few  months  ago, 
*  What  do  you  stick  your  face  all  over  the  country 
for?  It's  not  yourself  you're  trying  to  sell;  it's 
pickles.  Then  why  don't  you  advertise  pickles  ?  ' 
I  told  him  what  I  tell  you — it's  not  only  pickles, 
but  my  pickles,  I  want  to  get  rid  of.  If  you  know 
a  grocer  you'll  buy  at  his  store,  eh,  in  preference 
to  another  man's  that  may  be  just  as  good,  but 
that  you  don't  know?  Well,  that's  the  tack  I'm 
on.  People  get  to  know  who  I  am ;  then  they  buy 
my  goods.  They're  good  pickles,  but  they're  no 
better  than  any  others,  I  suppose.  They're  Mur- 
doch's, that's  all,  and  folks  know  who  Murdoch  is. 
You  say  you're  going  to  be  a  lawyer?  How  do 
you  expect  to  get  started  in  the  law  if  you  don't 
advertise?  " 

"  I'll  do  it  in  the  old  fashion,"  replied  Bradford. 
"  I'll  hire  an  office,  buy  a  sign,  and  put  mucilage 
on  the  seat  of  my  chair." 

"  Do !  "  cried  Murdoch,  contemptuously.  "  Do, 
and  sit  and  watch  the  spiders  on  your  desk.  I 
tell  you,  my  boy,  things  aren't  done  that  way  in 
this  generation.  You  might  as  well  expect  to  win 


AFTER     THE     WRECK 

a  race  by  wishing.  You  go  on  that  course,  and 
you'll  starve  in  a  year." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  starving  for  principle,"  said 
Bradford. 

"  Bah !  "  replied  the  pickle-maker,  and  abruptly 
went  away. 

Bradford  read  again  the  account  of  the  accident, 
no  more  able  to  resist  the  fascination  of  seeing  his 
name  in  print  than  anyone  else  is.  We  may 
grumble  and  grow  angry,  but  we  are  attentive 
until  we  have  reached  a  certain  stage  of  ennui,  at 
which  we  may  be  sure  we  have  become  really 
famous.  He  could  not  help  glancing  furtively 
around,  either,  to  see  whether  others  were  also  in- 
terested in  his  doings.  Alas,  he  discovered  that  as 
usual  they  were  intent  only  upon  their  own.  Yet 
he  could  not  help  hoping  that  a  few — two  or  three 
— one,  at  least — of  the  lot  wondered  who  he  was. 
If  only  the  girl  in  gray,  instead  of  Murdoch's 
niece,  had  sent  him  her  thanks  and  wanted  to  meet 
him!  Or  even  if  he  had  the  serene  confidence  of 
the  pickle-maker,  and  could  speak  to  her  off-hand, 
as  Murdoch  had  been  doing — and,  by  Heaven,  was 
doing  now!  Why  did  he  not  go  and  minister  to 
[69] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

the  wants  of  his  own  angular,  thin-chested,  red- 
headed— Bradford  ran  out  of  epithets — relative, 
whoever  and  wherever  she  was,  without  forcing  him- 
self upon  the  company  of  other  women?  If  Brad- 
ford could  have  found  any  pretext,  he  would  have 
gone  up  and  interfered;  but  he  could  think  of 
none,  so  he  sat  still,  fuming,  instead.  Presently 
Murdoch  broke  off  his  conversation,  and  returned 
again  to  Bradford's  seat. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  in  with  a  good  firm,  and 
begin  that  way  ?  "  he  remarked,  as  if  there  had  been 
no  break  in  their  conversation. 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?  You  know  the  old  proverb, 
Mr.  Murdoch — *  First  catch  your  firm.' ' 

"  Don't  you  know  any  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  And  you'll  pardon  me,  Mr. 
Murdoch,  if  I  say  that  I  don't  see 

But  the  pickle-maker  waved  his  hand. 

"  Now  you're  going  to  ask  me  what  business  it 
is  of  mine.  Why,  bless  your  heart,  boy,  of  course 
it's  my  business.  We  lived  pretty  fast  last  night, 
so  we've  known  each  other  a  long  time.  We're  old 
friends,  you  and  I.  Not  but  what  I  like  your 
spirit;  I  do,  by  the  Lord  Harry!  I  don't  believe 
[70] 


AFTER     THE     WRECK 

in  cackling  till  I've  laid  an  egg,  but  by  George, 
you  go  me  one  better ;  you  wouldn't  cackle  at  all, 
if  you  had  your  way.  Somebody's  got  to  take 
care  of  a  man  like  you,  and  I  swear  I'm  going  to 
try  the  job." 

"  And  suppose  I  prefer  to  take  care  of  myself?  " 

"  You  don't  know  how.  Listen  here ;  do  you 
know  Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper?  " 

"  Do  I  know  the  Trinity,  Mr.  Murdoch?  I  as- 
sure you  I  had  a  religious  bringing-up." 

Murdoch  laughed.  "  Barrett,  Barrett  and 
Cooper — that's  what  they  call  'em,  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Other  Fellow.  You've  heard  of  'em, 
eh?  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  firm? 
How'd  you  like  to  go  in  with  them,  hey  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  it,  of  course ;  but " 

"But  what?" 

"  They  don't  know  me,  you  see ;  my  valuable 
talents  are  hid  under  a  bushel,  as  far  as  they're 
concerned." 

"  Mine  ain't !  They  do  my  law  business,"  said 
Murdoch,  sententiously. 

Now  Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper  are  as  well 
known  in  Carfax  as  the  King  of  England,  or  the 
[71] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

captain  of  the  Carfax  College  eleven.  They  are 
the  leading  law  firm;  they  are  supposed  to  receive 
in  fees  and  commissions  considerably  over  two  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  a  year.  Their  office,  more- 
over, has  for  long  been  known  to  afford  the  best 
training  and  opportunity  a  young  lawyer  can  by 
any  means  secure.  Bradford  knew  this  as  well  as 
anyone;  and  knowing  it,  he  said  lightly, 

"  Really,  Mr.  Murdoch,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it ; 
but  your  name  and  mine  are  pronounced  differ- 
ently, you  know.  It  is  quite  possible  that  they 
may  know  you  without  being  aware  of  my  exist- 
ence." 

It  amounted  to  a  flippant  rejection  of  Murdoch's 
implied  offer.  The  moment  he  had  said  it  Brad- 
ford was  sorry;  but  only  for  a  moment.  The 
pickle-maker  went  serenely  on.  "  Yes,  but  sup- 
pose I  say  to  Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper,  '  Here's 
a  young  man,  Mr.  Bradfield ' ' 

"  Bradford,"  insisted  the  young  man. 

"  Bradford,  I  should  say.     He's  going  into  the 

law.     Take  him  into  your  office  and  try  him.     If 

he's  what  I  think  he  is,  you'll  have  a  good  man, 

and  he'll  have  some  of  John  Murdoch's  law  busi- 

[72] 


AFTER    THE    WRECK 

ness.  If  he  turns  out  bad,  there's  no  harm  done.' 
Suppose  I  say  that — you  wouldn't  refuse  the  job, 
would  you,  my  independent  young  friend?  " 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Murdoch,"  said  Bradford,  not 
knowing  whether  to  be  annoyed  or  amused,  "  you 
showed  me  a  minute  ago  that  you  didn't  even  know 
my  name  yet.  Are  you  trying  to  make  fun  of  me  ? 
Because,  if  you  are,  I'll  laugh.  If  you're  not " 

"Well,  if  I'm  not?" 

"  Then  I  won't  laugh." 

"  What  will  you  do?  " 

"  Thank  you  and  tell  you  it's  impossible." 

"  And  then  I'd  laugh,"  said  Murdoch.  "  Why 
is  it  impossible?  I  like  your  looks;  I  like  your 
actions;  I  like  your  voice.  I  don't  have  to  have 
a  printed  card  handed  me  before  I  dare  say  good- 
morning  to  a  man,  do  I?  You  think  I'm  making 
a  snapshot  judgment?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  For 
one  thing,  you're  from  Carfax  College;  that's  in 
your  favor.  I  like  the  boys  from  there.  For 
another,  you've  got  a  tongue  in  your  head ;  and  for 
a  third,  you  know  how  to  keep  it  there.  But  the 
best  thing,  and  the  biggest  thing,  is  this ;  you  don't 
have  to  be  told  what  is  to  be  done.  Take  last 
[73] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

night,  for  instance;  you  were  the  man  who  set  the 
signal  behind,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but " 

"  But  nothing.  I  thought  of  it,  and  then  I 
heard  a  man  had  gone  back  already,  so  I  did  some 
other  things  that  needed  to  be  done.  Don't  tell 
me,  young  man.  I  don't  make  mistakes  in  men; 
I  can't  afford  it.  If  you'll  take  this  job  with  Bar- 
rett, Barrett  and  Cooper,  you  can  have  it." 

"  Fll  take  it — if  they  offer  it  to  me." 

"  Give  me  your  address ;  they'll  write  to  you." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  And  by  the  way — can't  you  find  time  to  come 
around  and  see  me  some  evening?  I'd  like  mighty 
well  to  hear  that  voice  of  yours  again,  and  so  would 
Amy.  I  was  too  busy  last  night  to  get  it  all,  I 
reckon." 

"  I'd  be  delighted."  He  wondered  what  sort  of 
person  Amy  might  be;  what  sort  of  company  he 
would  be  likely  to  find  gathered  at  Murdoch's  man- 
sion— that  sort  of  person  always  lives  in  mansions, 
he  reflected.  His  original  portraits  of  Murdoch's 
family  were  now  slightly  rose-colored,  the  hue  being 
transferred  as  his  kindliness  toward  Murdoch  in- 
[74] 


AFTER    THE    WRECK 

creased.  Even  the  niece,  he  suspected,  might  be 
roughly  presentable,  now  that  her  uncle  had  recog- 
nized so  quickly  the  sterling  mark  in  Bradford's 
metal.  And  the  pickle-maker's  wife  began  to 
abate  her  querulousness ;  her  thin  bosom  amplified, 
her  face  sweetened,  her  garments  shaped  them- 
selves to  a  less  gorgeous  splendor.  The  incredible 
offspring  grew  possible;  if  there  was  a  little  girl, 
Bradford  determined  heroically  that  he  would  take 
her  in  his  lap,  and  tell  her  the  story  of  the  Prin- 
cess and  the  Frog.  He  began  to  recall  the  details 
of  this  story,  many  of  which  he  had  forgotten; 
but  Murdoch  interrupted  him  by  leaving.  They 
had  another  drink  together  from  Murdoch's  flask, 
and  Bradford  said  something  rather  witty  about 
the  exhaustless  cruse  of  oil — "  fusel-oil,"  he  ex- 
plained, under  cover  of  which  Murdoch  got  away 
without  subjecting  either  of  them  to  what  seemed 
to  Bradford  the  embarrassment  of  thanks. 

The  afternoon  drew  on,  and  they  were  nearing 
Carfax.  They  all  began  to  exchange  good-bys 
— hearty  good-byes,  full  of  meaning,  because  they 
had  stepped  out  of  the  commonplace  together. 
This  evening  they  would  go  their  ways,  and  most 
[75] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

of  them  would  never  see  each  other  more,  yet  they 
would  always  cherish  a  subconscious  friendliness 
for  those  who  had  come  through  safely,  and  a  sub- 
conscious sorrow  for  those  who  had  not.  Many 
of  the  passengers,  before  they  left,  hunted  up 
Bradford  to  tell  him  how  much  they  were  indebted 
for  his  singing;  and  he  thought  them  typical, 
whole-souled,  generous-hearted  Americans,  and 
liked  them  all,  unless  indeed  it  were  Bates,  the 
man  with  the  whiskers.  Bates  remarked,  as  they 
shook  hands, 

"  I  shall  always  hope  for  the  company  of  a  wan- 
dering minstrel  when  I  travel  on  the  Carfax  and 
Albans,  Mr.  Bradford.  How  does  it  seem  to  be  a 
bright  spot  amid  the  brightness  ?  " 

"  Reporters  are  past-masters  of  the  art  of  em- 
barrassment, aren't  they  ?  " 

"  They  are,"  said  Bates.  "  And  the  worst  of  it 
is,  that  sometimes  they  don't  mention  us  at  all." 

Then  the  train  drew  into  Carfax,  and  among 
the  crowd  that  pranced  in  impatience  behind  the 
railings,  sternly  held  in  check  by  the  gateman,  in 
spite  of  oaths  and  adjurations  and  tears — among 
this  mob  of  relatives,  as  he  phrased  it,  Bradford 
[76] 


AFTER    THE    WRECK 

saw  Slim  and  Kate  and  Shedsy;  and  when  they 
perceived  him  they  rent  the  air  of  the  station  with 
their  cries. 

"  Which  is  Frankie  Bradford,  the  bright  spot?  " 
they  demanded.  "  Yonder  is  Frankie  Bradford, 
the  bright  spot." 

"  Shut  up,  you  turgid  idiots,"  he  muttered. 
"  There  are  dead  people  back  here.  Oh,  if  I 
could  get  to  you !  "  He  was  hastening  to  do  so, 
when  he  felt  a  touch  upon  his  shoulder,  and  turn- 
ing, saw  Murdoch  again. 

"  Found  your  friends?  "  asked  the  pickle-maker. 
"  I  won't  detain  you ;  but  I  thought  I'd  like  to 
introduce  you  to  my  niece.  Amy,  this  is  Mr. 
Bradford." 

She  bowed ;  Bradford's  head  whirled  about  un- 
certainly. This  the  niece  he  had  been  avoiding — 
this  girl  in  gray?  He  stammered,  and  the  crowd 
swirled  them  about,  and  separated  them,  and  he 
went  on  to  join  his  friends. 


[77] 


Chapter  Five 

SPEAKS  OF    PASTE    DIAMONDS 

The  big  arms  of  Kate  went  promptly  round  Brad- 
ford's neck.  In  this  there  was  nothing  improper; 
Kate's  name  in  full  was  Cato  Henry  Strong,  and  he 
had  been  too  unsophisticated  when  he  came  up  to 
Carfax  College  to  suppress  the  first  part.  Later, 
when  he  became  an  integral  part  of  the  football 
team,  the  nickname  turned  to  a  badge  of  honor. 

"  Dear  old  boy,"  he  said,  softly,  "  we  are  glad 
to  see  you!  And  how  did  you  leave  the  royal 
family  ?  " 

Shedsy — his  name  was  Edward  Baker  Barnes  on 
the  college  books — Shedsy  seized  a  free  hand  and 
wriggled  it  up  and  down  energetically.  He  was  a 
round,  stout  young  man.  Women  who  heard  of 
his  popularity  among  men  marvelled,  and  said, 
"  That  Mr.  Barnes ! "  incredulously.  But  the 
men  explained  vaguely  that  he  fitted.  He  was  the 
round  peg  in  the  round  hole,  someone  once  said. 
[78] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

His  friendliness  defied  analysis.  There  is  a  popu- 
lar belief  that  the  talkative  man  lacks  balance. 
Quite  unconsciously,  Shedsy  Barnes  employed  him- 
self in  refuting  this  theory.  He  talked  so  fast  he 
stammered ;  the  big  words  tumbled  over  each  other's 
backs  clumsily,  like  young  puppies. 

"  Frank,  for  any  sake,  come  from  out  this  heav- 
ing multitude  before  you  are  recognized,"  he  said. 
"  Our  congratulations  and  our  ch-cheerful  assur- 
ances of  h-health  must  all  await  a  more  ap-appro- 
priate  moment.  The  insatiate  re-reporters  will 
mangle  you  limb  from  limb  if  you  tarry.  Come, 
O  Atrides,  sons  of  Olympus !  For  heaven's  sake, 
g-get  a  move  on !  " 

Slim  said  nothing  at  all,  after  Slim's  slow  fash- 
ion. When  he  had  an  opportunity  he  shook 
hands,  in  his  own  way ;  he  gave  Bradford's  fingers 
one  tremendous  clutch,  looking  squarely  in  his 
eyes,  then  dropped  them.  They  tingled  after- 
ward. Women  have  been  known  to  scream  when 
Slim  shook  hands  with  them — much  to  his  embar- 
rassment and  fright.  He  too  was  round;  round 
and  very  earnest.  Youth  was  serious  business  to 
Slim. 

[79] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Now  the  impetuosity  of  Shedsy  carried  them 
away.  Bradford  tried  to  give  a  hotel  address  to 
the  transfer  agent,  but  they  laughed  at  him,  and 
substituted  another,  away  out  collegeward. 

"  If  you  fellows  think,"  protested  Bradford, 
"  that  I  am  going  back  to  boarding-housing,  now 
that  I  am  a  free  man " 

Shedsy  interrupted.  "  You  are  going,"  he  de- 
clared, with  joyful  deliberation,  "  to  assist  in  the 
formation  of  the  Residuum." 

"  AVhat  is  the  Residuum?  " 

"  It's  a  new  kind  of  Welsh  rabbit,"  answered 
Kate,  seriously.  Shedsy  grinned.  But  when  Brad- 
ford demanded  to  know  more,  they  hooted  at  him, 
and  refused  to  tell  him  anything.  They  hurried 
him  across  the  city,  and  northward  till  the  houses 
thinned,  and  in  the  east  one  had  a  glimpse  now 
and  then  of  the  splendid,  sullen  river  rolling  on; 
and  north  still,  till  the  old  wooden  buildings,  and 
new  stone  buildings,  and  the  brick  buildings  of 
doubtful  age,  like  independent  spinsters  who  make 
up  in  respectability  what  they  lack  in  beauty — till 
the  buildings  one  and  all  of  Carfax  College  greet- 
ed him  across  the  windy,  electric-lighted  prairies. 
[80] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

They  whisked  him  round  a  corner  and  up  a  stair 
and  into  an  apartment. 

"  Now  while  my  Lord  the  Globe-trotter  takes 
his  bath  and  makes  himself  like  one  of  the  1-lilies  of 
the  field,  let  us  see  to  the  p-preparation  of  a  feast 
meet  even  for  s-such  as  he." 

"  Is  this  the  Residuum?  " 

"  Hustle,  Frank ;  we're  dying  to  hear  about  it 
all,  especially  the  singing." 

So  he  went  to  his  bath.  But  they  were  too  impa- 
tient to  wait,  these  children  of  twenty-six  or  so — 
Kate  would  take  his  Ph.D.  in  less  than  a  year; 
Shedsy  was  a  "  business  man,"  in  a  bank  some- 
where among  the  commercial  jungles  of  Carfax; 
and  Slim  taught  in  a  girls'  school.  It  was  the 
reaction  from  the  clatter  there,  said  Kate,  which 
made  Slim  so  silent  elsewhere.  They  all  came  and 
sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  tub  where  Bradford  re- 
clined at  ease  while  he  rehearsed  the  story  of  the 
wreck. 

"  Here   was   the   side   of  the   ravine,   you    see, 

shelving  so,  and  curving  so.     The  engine  left  the 

track,  and  pulled  the  rest  of  us  after  her.     I  was 

in  the  last  Pullman;  both  Pullmans  turned  half 

[81] 


THE  CHAMELEON 
over  and  then  stopped.  That  left  the  window  in 
the  roof,  so  to  speak.  I  was  all  dressed — I'd  been 
sitting  up — and  I  just  climbed  through,  and  there 
I  was,  monarch  of  all  I  surveyed;  not  a  person 
could  I  see,  except  the  woman  in  the  moon — she 
was  there,  looking  as  curious  as  usual.  I  tell  you  it 
was  eerie.  I  thought  for  a  minute — of  course  I 
was  half -crazy,  and  I  just  sort  of  wondered  it — 
that  all  the  passengers  but  me  were  killed.  It 
made  me  sick,  I  think." 

"  But  what  did  you  think  of  before  you  got 
out,  Frank  —  while  you  were  1-lying  there  in 
the  smoker? "  Shedsy's  blue  eyes  were  very 
eager. 

Bradford  hesitated.  "  Well,  I  don't  know  ex- 
actly. There  was  a  girl  I  had  noticed  before — a 
smooth  girl,  mighty  smooth.  I  think  I  just  won- 
dered, for  a  minute,  whether  she  had  been  hurt  or 
not,  and  if  she  could  get  out." 

Shedsy  shot  a  significant,  affectionate  look  at 
Kate.  "  Of  course  you  did !  Most  of  us  would 
have  been  wondering  which  was  the  quickest  way 
out,  I'll  bet ;  but  I  said  to  Kate " 

"  Bosh !  "  interrupted  Bradford,  quickly.  "  You 
[82] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

would  all  do  just  what  I  did.     Now  get  out  of  here, 
or  I'll  splash  the  pretty  clothes  of  you." 

"  But  about  the  singing?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  I've  adorned  my  beauty." 
So  they  went  reluctantly  out,  and  Bradford,  splash- 
ing in  his  tub,  carolled  lustily. 

"  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  in  the  first  sweet 
sleep— Kate?  " 

"Yes?" 

"  You  haven't  told  me  a  wofd  of  anybody." 

"I  will,  though.     Who,  for  choice?" 

«  Well— how's  Ethel  Blayne?  " 

"  She's  engaged  to  Champ." 

"Champ  Rogers?" 

"  None  other." 

"  Champ  is  really  engaged  ?  " 

"  'Tis  true,  'tis  pity ;  pity  'tis,  'tis  true." 

"  When  the  winds  are  breathing  low,  and  the 
stars  are — Kate?  " 

"Yes?" 

"How's  Roger  Van?" 

"  Roger  isn't  expected  to  recover." 

"Wha-at?" 

"  True  as  Gospel,  Frank." 
[83] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  But,  Great  Scott,  Kate — why,  what's  the  mat- 
ter with  him  ?  " 

"  Matrimony." 

"Not  really?" 

"  As  thy  servant  liveth,  O  King." 

"  Battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death  for  poor  old 
Roge!  Where  the  champak's  odors  blow — say, 
my  Katrine  ?  " 

"Yes?" 

"  And  is  Bob  really  engaged,  as  you  wrote  me, 
or  was  that  a  fake?  " 

"  Wait  till  you  see  the  foolish  look  in  Bob's  eye, 
and  you'll  know." 

There  was  renewed  sound  of  splashing  from 
within.  Then  came  mournfully,  "But  Kate?" 

"Well?" 

"  Who  in  heaven's  name  is  left  to  us  ?  Have 
the  waves  swept  all  the  beaches  clean?  " 

"  There  yet  remain  some  few  pebbles." 

"Who,  then?" 

"  Yourself,  for  instance." 

"Yes — I   am  faithful,  thank   God."     A  swift 
flash  of  memory  made  Bradford  blush  a  little  here, 
but  his  voice  was  determined. 
[84] 


SPEAKS    OF    PASTE    DIAMONDS 

"  And  myself." 

"  Not  you,  Kate.  You  never  mentioned  Marion 
Craven  to  me,  all  the  letters  you  sent  me  in  a  year." 

Kate,  too,  reddened ;  and  unfortunately  for  him, 
he  was  under  the  eyes  of  both  Slim  and  Shedsy. 
Yet  he  maintained  stoutly, 

"  Myself,  I  say.     And  Shedsy,  and  Slim." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  there  are  even  four  righteous 
in  this  hymeneal  Gomorrah.  *  And  a  spirit  in  my 
feet  hath  led  me  '  " — the  voice  died  away. 

The  three  outside  exchanged  glances.  "  He'll 
go  in !  "  said  Shedsy,  triumphantly. 

At  dinner  he  told  them  all  over  again  about  his 
singing.  That  was  a  most  unpretentious  little 
dining-room.  At  the  side  it  looked  out  across  a 
waste  of  lots  and  streets,  flat  and  ragged,  but  with 
outlines  softened  in  the  coming  evening.  Beyond 
glittered  white  and  green  the  cottonwoods,  those 
complaisant  trees  which  will  grow  in  any  soil,  and 
demand  only  the  privilege  of  showering  just  and 
unjust  with  their  fluttering  fuzz.  Within  there 
was  a  table,  a  side-board,  and  four  pictures — ar- 
mored young  Sir  Galahad  staring  pensively  into 
the  dimming  woods ;  two  petulant-looking  lions 
[85] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

issuing  from  an  enormous  cave ;  a  sepia  sketch  of  a 
girl;  and  a  framed  photograph  of  Borden  Hall. 
But  three,  at  least,  of  these  men  were  used  to 
the  bare  dreariness  of  Borden  from  the  inside; 
it  stands  mellowly  enough  in  the  shadowy  photo- 
graph, but  within  are  many  a  crack  and  many  a 
soiled  wall.  And  all  of  the  four  knew  well  the 
dreary  inhospitality  of  the  Carfax  boarding-house. 
This  spot  was  far  more  to  them  than  the  glory  of 
gilt  or  the  grandeur  of  horse-hair.  The  napkins 
were  their  own  napkins,  the  dishes  their  own  dishes 
— some  by  right  of  purchase,  and  more  by  virtue 
of  the  quick  fingers  and  easy  morality  of  the  un- 
dergraduate. "  I've  fed  for  many  years,"  said 
Shedsy,  "  and  now,  by  G-Gosh,  I'm  going  to  eat." 
"  We  three,"  said  Shedsy,  "  are  believers  in 
bachelorhood — though  we  have  our  doubts  about 
Kate.  But  we  can't  see  why,  because  we  are  bach- 
elors, we  should  therefore  be  de-deprived  of  all  the 
comforts  of  home.  So  we  rented  this  palatial  resi- 
dence, securing  a  m-ministering  angel  in  the  shape 
of  a  h-housekeeper,  and  named  ourselves  the  Re- 
siduum. We  counted  on  you,  of  course.  Will  you 
join  us?  " 

[86] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

"  Why  the  Residuum,  Shedsy?  " 

"  Well,  because  we  th-think  we're  like  the  g-gold 
that's  left  when  all  the  less  valuable  stuff  is  drained 
away,  don't  you  see?  " 

"  Cradled  away,  you  mean." 

"  S-since  I'm  speaking  of  marriage,  I  suppose 
I  do." 

"  I'll  come  in,  of  course." 

"  Three  ch-cheer&  for  you !  Let's  drink  to  our- 
selves— with  one  foot  on  the  table.  In  sickness  or 
health,  in  poverty  or  wealth,  till  death  do  us  part 
— to  the  Residuum !  " 

"  To  the  Residuum !  "  they  cried,  standing  and 
waving  their  glasses.  Thus  easily  was  formed 
what  Shedsy  fondly  imagined  would  endure. 
Poor  Shedsy!  Any  philosopher  could  have  told 
him  that  he  was  opposing  his  puny  efforts  to  the 
forces  of  the  universe.  Kate,  even,  might  have 
confessed — but  Kate  would  have  been  the  first  to 
deny  that  he  had  anything  to  confess.  And  Brad- 
ford was  so  far  from  suspecting  the  grip  which 
fate  had  suddenly  laid  on  him,  that  he  began  to 
speak  carelessly  of  the  girl  he  had  met  that  day. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  there  is  no  country  like 
[87] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

America  for  royal  roads — royal  roads  everywhere; 
short  cuts  to  learning,  and  to  wealth,  and  to  power, 
and  to  fame.  Once,  when  a  man  wanted  an  educa- 
tion, he  devoted  the  good  years  of  his  life  to  get- 
ting it;  now  he  reads  the  fifth  page  of  the  news- 
paper. A  woman  turns  over  the  sheet,  and  finds 
out  in  five  minutes  how  to  be  beautiful  though 
ugly,  and  how  to  be  married  though  poor.  In 
Europe  a  man  makes  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
in  twenty  years,  here  he  picks  up  a  million  in  half 
an  hour.  While  you  wait  you  can  be  provided 
with  a  full  set  of  teeth  or  a  full  set  of  ancestors. 
I  talked  with  a  man  to-day  who  boasted  that 
eleven  years  ago  he  hadn't  a  cent,  and  now  he 
doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  his  money.  He  is 
ignorant,  blatant,  and  rich  as  Croesus.  He  had 
originally,  I  think,  all  the  virtues ;  he  hasn't  added 
a  single  grace.  He  makes  pickles;  he  confers 
favors  on  poor  young  men  with  the  air  of  a  king 
and  the  tact  of  an  Afghan,  and  his  name  is  Mur- 
doch." 

"  What — the  hero  of  the  accident  ?  " 
"  Precisely  so ;  the  hero  of  the  accident.     Un- 
derstand, I  just  admitted  that  he  had  all  the  virt- 
[88] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

ues.  All  I  say  is,  that  he  has  come  to  his  present 
place  by  a  short  cut,  like  ten  thousand  others,  and 
what  he  has  gained  in  speed  he  has  lost  in  knowl- 
edge. Take  two  men  who  set  out  for  the  same 
spot;  one  has  plenty  of  time,  sees  the  country- 
side, hears  the  birds  singing,  picks  a  few  flowers, 
and  by  and  by  in  the  twilight  comes  to  his  rest, 
peacefully  and  full  of  pleasant  memories.  The 
other  never  gets  out  of  the  dust  he  makes  himself. 
He  arrives ;  that  is  all  you  can  say  for  him.  Well 
—that's  Murdoch." 

"  Did  he  tr-tread  on  your  corns,  my  saunterer?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  was  very  nice  to  me.  I 
am  merely  moralizing,  Shedsy.  I  haven't  yet  got 
to  my  point — which  is  this.  Of  all  the  American 
short  cuts,  there  is  nothing  to  compare  with  the 
American  girl's  short  cut  to  style.  Did  you  fel- 
lows notice  a  little  girl  at  the  station  to-day  who 
wore  gray,  and  had  Eyes  ?  " 

"  Was  she  with  a  st-stupendous  friend  in  al- 
paca ?  " 

"  She  was.  I  saw  her  yesterday  on  the  train, 
and  I  thought,  '  Here  is  some  princess  in  dis- 
guise. Here  is  a  girl  who  can  give  Lady  Clara 
[89] 


THE  CHAMELEON 
Vere  de  Vere,  the  daughter  of  a  hundred  earls, 
half  the  pack  and  beat  her.'  She  looked  to  me  like 
the  real  thing.  Do  you  want  to  know  who  she  is? 
She  is  none  other  than  the  niece,  as  I  learned  to- 
day, of  my  pickle-maker !  " 

"  Is  she  any  the  less  the  real  thing,  Frank  ?  " 

"  I  wonder !  Can  the  American  girl  take  the 
short  cut,  and  still  gain  all  the  advantages  of  the 
long  way  round?  She  is  hardly  one  remove  from 
the  vinegar,  Kate;  will  one  generation  do  away 
with  the  odor?  Is  she  the  real  thing?  That  is 
what  I  complain  about  in  our  life  here.  We  can't 
tell  the  real  thing  from  the  imitation.  We  haven't 
any  final  standards  of  judgment.  When  the  mar- 
ket is  full  of  counterfeit  money,  you  may  be  fooled, 
but  when  in  doubt  you  can  at  least  go  to  the  bank 
and  learn  wisdom.  But  with  men  and  women  there 
is  no  cashier  to  consult." 

"  Your  problem  settles  itself,  Frank.  If  you 
can't  tell  the  real  from  the  imitation,  take  both 
with  a  light  heart." 

"  My  dear  Kate,  that's  just  where  I  can't  agree 
with   you.      When   I   wear   diamonds,   I    want   to 
know  their  value.     If  I  choose  to  exhibit  paste  to 
[90] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

the  world,  I  am  glad  if  the  world  is  deceived;  but 
when  I  have  the  sneaking  knowledge  that  I  don't 
myself  know  the  stone  from  the  paste,  then  I'm 
uneasy.  Take  this  girl.  It  seems  impossible  that 
she  can  be  real;  yet  we  are  so  wonderful  a  nation 
that  she  may  be.  How  is  one  to  discover?  You 
are  about  to  tell  me  that  tests  can  surely  be  ap- 
plied, and  you  are  right.  But  they  take  a  long 
time.  Suppose  one  should  devote  his  life  to  em- 
ploying them,  and  discover  at  the  end  that  his 
diamond  was  paste?  " 

Shedsy  came  round  the  table  and  put  his  hand 
on  Bradford's  shoulder.  "  Frankie,"  he  said, 
sadly,  "  Th-that  way  madness  lies.  The  nebular 
hy-hypothesis  is  a  bagatelle  to  the  problem  of 
Woman.  Did  you  never  hear  the  little  story  of 
the  cat  and  the  fox?  Th-the  fox  said  he  knew  a 
hundred  ways  out  of  tr-trouble;  the  cat  said  he 
knew  only  one,  and  that  was  to  climb  a  tree.  Pr- 
presently  trouble  came :  the  cat  climbed  a  tree,  and 
the  f-fox,  while  he  was  th-thinking  which  way  to 
take,  g-got  it  in  the  neck.  When  Woman  gets 
into  the  game,  Fr-Frankie  dear,  profit  by  this  little 
fa-fable,  and  climb  a  tree." 
[91] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Shedsy  believes  that  because  seven  devils  were 
once  cast  out  of  one  woman,  the  same  number  are 
still  in  all  the  others." 

"  I  d-don't ;  I  don't  at  all.  I  respect  the  sex 
highly,  and  I  admire  them,  too,  in  a  way.  But 
I  see  them  c-coming  and  c-catching  all  my  friends, 
and  d-doing  something  to  them  so  that  they're  not 
friends  of  m-mine  any  more;  and  I'm  frightened, 
that's  all.  What  b-bosh  you  are  talking !  Frankie, 
you  haven't  told  us  about  your  singing." 

"  Nothing  to  tell.  Music  was  requested,  and  I 
was  too  lazy  to  work,  so  I  sang  instead." 

"Y-yes!" 

"  That  was  all  there  was  to  it,  honestly." 

"Did  they  like  it?  " 

"  Seemed  to." 

"  If  you  were  so  la-lazy,  why  did  you  run  back 
half  a  mile  and  kin-kindle  the  beacon,  my  son?  " 

Bradford  hesitated ;  then  he  smiled.  "  If  a 
Pullman  conductor  came  at  you  with  a  pistol,  and 
told  you  to  take  your  choice  of  going  back  or  stay- 
ing where  you  were — permanently — which  would 
you  choose  ?  " 

"He  didn't!" 

[92] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

"  I'd  rather  you  didn't  mention  it,  because  it 
might  be  misinterpreted;  but  he  did." 

"  But  w-why  shouldn't  you  go  back?  " 

"  I  had  a  theory,  until  I  saw  him,  that  I  could 
do  more  good  by  pulling  someone  out,  perhaps." 

Shedsy's  face  cleared.  "  Of  course !  "  he  medi- 
tated, softly.  "  I  might  have  known."  Still, 
there  was  a  little  awkward  pause,  till  Bradford 
broke  it  by  laughing. 

"  You  were  thinking  I  had  been  afraid  of  the 
dark,  perhaps?  " 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  protested  Shedsy. 

They  sat  a  long  while  over  their  coffee  and  cigar- 
ettes, finding  each  other  out  afresh  after  Brad- 
ford's long  absence.  Later,  when  they  had  grown 
reacquainted,  Kate  went  off  to  study,  and  Slim 
slipped  away  to  bed,  and  finally  even  the  indefati- 
gable Shedsy,  cursing  the  early  hours  he  had  to 
keep,  retired ;  but  Bradford  sat  up.  He  had  a 
letter  to  write,  he  said. 

Yet  he  waited  an  hour  before  he  wrote  it.  He 
began  to  speculate  once  more  concerning  the  girl 
in  gray ;  his  thoughts  wandered  far  afield,  and  be- 
fore he  was  aware  he  had  made  her  acquaintance, 
[93] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

found  her  all  his  instant  fancy  guessed,  and  begun 
telling  her  his  dreams.  Then  he  stopped  and 
laughed.  Nothing  so  gauzy  as  a  dream,  he  told 
himself,  would  hold  the  attention  of  a  pickle-mak- 
er's niece.  She  would  want  material  things:  Posi- 
tion, in  particular.  Possibly  she  even  read  Debrett 
and  aspired  to  a  title  by  marriage.  That  would 
depend  on  the  continued  success  of  the  Shakespeare 
Brand,  and  the  financial  measure  of  her  uncle's 
affection  for  her.  A  man  who  could  dower  un- 
known young  men  with  golden  chances  would  not 
be  likely  to  haggle,  however,  over  any  bargain  con- 
nected with  his  niece.  Bradford  had  no  scruple  in 
accepting  Murdoch's  favor.  He  did  not  analyze 
his  own  motives,  or  perhaps  he  might  have  dis- 
covered that  he  scarcely  regarded  it  as  a  favor  at 
all.  There  are  men  born  to  give,  and  men  born  to 
receive,  just  as  in  the  economy  of  nature  there  are 
lakes  as  well  as  rivers ;  their  functions  are  different 
but  equally  creditable. 

At  length  he  came  to  the  letter  he  had  received 
from  his  mother.     He  thought  it  over,  at  this  re- 
moval  from   the  heat   of   perusal,   with   some   re- 
luctance.    He    felt    no   desire   to   read    it    again. 
[94] 


SPEAKS  OF  PASTE  DIAMONDS 

Long  as  the  time  seemed  since  he  had  opened  it, 
Bradford  had  not  forgotten  a  bit  of  it.  It  had 
disappointed  him,  though  this  he  did  not  admit  to 
himself.  The  news  of  his  father's  suicide  and  its 
cause  came  to  him  with  a  detached  and  impersonal 
effect.  Bradford  could  barely  remember  his  father. 
He  was  interested  as  a  man  might  be  in  reading 
a  story  which  was  engrossing  in  itself,  and  whose 
author  was  known  to  him;  that  was  all.  There 
remained,  then,  only  the  part  of  the  letter  made 
personal — his  mother's  hopes  and  fears  for  him. 
Bradford  was  a  man  who  followed,  or  thought  he 
followed,  the  advice  of  the  old  Greek — "  Know 
thyself."  The  letter  only  gave  a  fillip  to  his  self- 
analysis.  When  he  had  pondered  a  long  time,  he 
took  pen  and  paper  and  began  to  write.  "  To  my 
mother  in  heaven,"  was  the  address  he  set  at  the 
head  of  the  page.  He  wrote  for  some  time,  and 
very  steadily.  Then  he  stopped,  and  read  over 
what  he  had  written;  added  a  few  more  lines, 
signed  it ;  seized  a  match  and  set  fire  to  the  corner. 
But  before  the  paper  had  more  than  flickered  into 
a  blaze,  Bradford,  on  second  thoughts,  extinguished 
it,  folded  it,  sealed  it  in  an  envelope,  and  put  it 

carefully  away. 

[95] 


Chapter  Six 

THE  PEESIDENT  AND  AMY 

"Belle  mere!" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  I'm  growing — old." 

"Yes?" 

"  And  this  afternoon "  The  president's 

daughter  paused.  Mrs.  Craven,  the  president's 
wife,  continued  to  arrange  the  china  buckets  into 
which,  later,  she  would  pour  the  tea.  Her  teapot, 
which  was  shaped  like  a  pump,  was  bizarre  in  ap- 
pearance— but  oh,  the  tea  she  poured  thence! 

"  And  this  afternoon,"  Marion  Craven  con- 
tinued, "  I  decided  that  it  was  high  time  for  me  to 
begin  to  rouge." 

"  Marion ! " 

"  'Sabelle !  Call  me  no  more  Marion ;  call  me 
Mary  Ann,  for  great  waters  have  gone  over  my 
head." 

The  president's  wife  came  round  the  table,  her 
[96] 


THE     PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

buckets  being  now  arranged  to  her  liking,  and  took 
her  step-daughter  firmly  by  both  shoulders.  Mrs. 
Craven  was  used  to  Marion's  vagaries  of  speech, 
yet  she  fancied  that  for  some  reason  this  was  a 
time  for  sympathy.  "Marion,  what's  the  mat- 
ter? " 

"  Matter  enough,  my  dear.  Two  days  ago  I 
was — I  was ' 

"  I  know,  dear." 

"  Let  me  say  it  while  my  courage  endures, 
'Sabelle.  I  was — thirty-four." 

"  But  /  am  forty-six." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  be.  Alas,  I  have  no  right 
to  be  thirty-four." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  single  woman ;  and  no  single  woman  has 
a  right  to  be  her  age — if  she  looks  it.  Yes ;  it  is 
time  for  me  to  begin  to  rouge." 

"  You  don't  look  your  age,  dear." 

The  president's  daughter  returned  her  look  wist- 
fully. "  Honestly,  now?  "  Then  she  shook  her 
head.  "  That  remark  would  be  malicious  from  any 
other  woman  that  you,  ma  mere.  It  implies  what 
I  was  hoping  wasn't  true." 
[97] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  I  am  so  old  I  am  afraid  people  will  find 
it  out." 

"  Afraid  who  will  find  it  out?  " 

"  Nobody  in  particular.  Still,  it  is  true  that  I 
saw  somebody  this  morning.  He  was  an  old  pet 
of  yours — of  ours,  I  mean." 

"  We  have  had  so  many  old  pets,  haven't  we?  " 

"  But  this  is  a  special  one." 

The  president's  wife  considered.  "  Harry 
Ford?" 

"  The  aw-tust  ?  No,  no.  I  never  cared  what 
he  thought." 

"Who  then?" 

"  Frank  Bradford." 

"  Oh— Mr.  Bradford?  I  think  I  heard  that  he 
was  back." 

Marion  nodded.  "Yes,  he  is  back.  And  so 
good-looking!  And  so  polite!  And  so — old! 
Why,  I  remember  him  as  a  little  boy,  almost.  It 
is  dreadful  to  have  antediluvian  memories.  When 
one  cannot  forget  the  vision  of  one's  admirers  in 
knickerbockers  one  realizes  bitterly  her  tale  of 


years." 


[98] 


THE     PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him." 

"  You  will,  dear.  I  asked  him  to  come  this 
afternoon." 

"  Fm  glad  you  thought  to." 

The  president  of  Carfax  College,  coming  in 
with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  interrupted  them.  "  Isa- 
belle,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Doctor." 

"  Langton  writes  me  that  he  will  be  in  Carfax 
on  the  29th.  I  have  asked  him  to  stay  with  us,  of 
course." 

"  Of  course,  Doctor." 

The  president's  daughter  patted  down  his  black 
tie  affectionately.  "  You  do  tie  ties  so  well, 
father.  I  often  think  that  if  the  demand  for  col- 
lege presidents  lessens,  you  could  make  such  a 
lovely  clerk." 

Dr.  Craven  shook  his  white  head  meditatively. 
"  I'm  afraid  not,  Marion.  They  want  young  men 
now,  I  hear.  Isabelle?  " 

"  Well,  dear?  " 

"  You  remember  Langton,  don't  you?  He  was 
here  in  '79,  I  think." 

"  But  I  wasn't,  Doctor." 
[99] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  So?     Why,  of  course." 

"  /  remember  him,  father.  But  don't  you  dare 
let  him  know  it." 

Her  father  contemplated  her,  a  trifle  puzzled, 
but  his  thoughts  refused  to  busy  themselves  with 
her  remark,  and  presently  his  brow  cleared.  He 
looked  at  the  table  approvingly,  as  it  shone  with 
glass  and  silver  filigree  and  blossomed  with  china, 
and  said,  irrelevantly, 

"  Isabelle,  did  you  know  that  Mr.  Murdoch  was 
elected  yesterday  to  the  board  of  trustees  ?  " 

"  Yes,  doctor ;  you  told  us.     The  pickle-maker." 

"  I  believe  he  does  manufacture  something  of  the 
sort — yes." 

"  Will  he  set  up  vats  in  the  dormitories,  father?  " 

"  Marion ! " 

"  Well,  dear,  I  didn't  know.  I  really  don't  see 
why  he  should  be  on  the  board,  otherwise." 
Marion's  voice  was  a  little  acid. 

"  He  has  deserved  the  election,"  answered  the 
president,  with  sudden  spirit.  "  He  is  the  most 
prominent  graduate  we  have." 

"  The  richest,  father." 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thing,  apparently,"  ob- 
[100] 


THE     PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 
served  Dr.  Craven,  quietly.     His  wife  crossed  over 
and  took  his  arm. 

"  Do  you  mind  his  being  on  the  board,  dear?  " 

"  I  ?  No.  He  will  represent  the  younger  men. 
I  fear  there  may  have  been  stagnation  in  the  affairs 
of  the  college.  I  may  have  been  too  anxious  to 
progress  safely,  and  have  ended  by  not  progressing 
at  all.  We  must  keep  up  with  the  procession,  you 
know." 

"  I  wish  he  had  stayed  in  his  own  business,  and 
not  meddled  with  ours." 

"  Marion !  "  rebuked  the  president  once  again. 
"  The  college  is  not  mine,  you  know;  it  belongs  to 
us  all.  It  is  his  business.  Besides,  he  is  to  be  our 
guest." 

"  Is  he  coming  this  afternoon  ?  " 

The  president  nodded. 

Dr.  Craven's  name  had  been  associated  with 
Carfax  College  for  thirty-seven  years — eleven  as 
professor  of  Greek,  twenty-six  as  president.  The 
time  is  now  past  when  instructors  in  ancient  lan- 
guages are  considered  fit  persons  to  head  our  insti- 
tutions of  learning.  It  passed  when  the  emphasis 
was  transferred  from  "  learning "  to  "  institu- 
[101] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

tion."  Moreover,  Dr.  Craven  was  unsuited  in 
many  ways  to  modern  methods.  To  begin  with,  he 
was  a  minister.  And  more  than  this,  he  was  a 
minister  who  for  twenty  years  had  been  engaged 
with  a  "  Commentary  on  the  Four  Gospels,"  and 
still  hoped  to  finish  Matthew  by  the  end  of  the  next 
long  vacation.  In  the  second  place,  he  was  sixty- 
five.  In  the  third  place,  he  cherished  the  old  the- 
ory of  a  college,  which  is,  to  put  it  alliteratively, 
boys,  books,  and  benches — so  far  had  the  times 
drifted  by  him!  With  such  a  steward,  and  sur- 
rounded by  other  graybeards  like  him  on  the  board 
of  trustees,  slumbered  Carfax  College.  Like  the 
princess  in  the  fairy-tale,  it  slept  while  the  chang- 
ing years  passed  unheeded. 

But  meanwhile  no  such  enchanted  lethargy  pos- 
sessed Carfax  the  city.  Every  year  smoke  came 
coiling  from  a  hundred  new  factories,  and  soiled 
the  fa9ades  of  ten  thousand  new  houses.  Rail- 
roads shot  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  country, 
and  found  their  target  in  Carfax.  One  fancied 
they  came  in  every  day,  like  monstrous  commercial 
travellers,  and  registered  a  fresh  steel  signature  on 
the  welcoming  guest-book.  With  the  growth  of 
[102] 


THE     PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

business  came  the  clamor  that  Carfax  College 
should  grow  too.  Wanted — a  Fairy  Prince  to  wake 
the  Sleeping  Beauty !  Carfaxians  were  aware  that 
a  college  was  out  of  date;  a  university  was  their 
desire.  At  first  the  whitehaired  trustees  resisted, 
but  the  pressure  was  becoming  very  strong.  John 
Murdoch,  Carfax  Eighty-blank,  manufacturer  of 
pickles,  was  among  those  who  had  voiced  most  stren- 
uously the  need  for  new  plans  and  new  life.  Now 
John  Murdoch  had  been  elected  to  the  board  of 
trustees.  The  camel's  head  was  in ;  would  the  beast 
ultimately  possess  the  tent?  What  Dr.  Craven 
thought  no  one  knew.  Yet  it  is  true  that  Dr. 
Craven  had  been  gently  pessimistic  for  some  years 
— ever  since  the  death  of  his  second  little  girl,  the 
child  of  his  old  age.  He  had  given  a  kind  of 
grandfatherly  adoration  to  this  little  Isabelle. 
When  she  went  away  from  him  he  grew  older  fast. 
He  lived  now  only  in  the  college.  That,  too,  was 
his  child ;  it  was  part  of  him.  Perhaps  because  he 
saw  a  day  coming  when  the  college  too  would  be 
taken  away  from  him,  he  loved  it  all  the  more.  He 
never  allowed  himself  to  wonder  about  that  day, 
however.  He  saw  the  signs  of  coming  change,  but 
[103] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

it  seemed  impossible  that  the  change  could  come  in 
his  time. 

The  guests  began  to  dribble  in.  These  Thurs- 
day afternoon  teas  of  the  President's  wife  were 
features  of  Carfax  College  life.  Of  old  she  had 
held  them  on  Saturday,  but  they  interfered  so  seri- 
ously with  the  football  games  that  popular  request 
succeeded  in  setting  them  back  to  Thursday. 
They  had  not  the  charm  of  selectness,  these  teas; 
anyone  on  the  faculty  was  welcome  to  drop  in; 
students  were  frequently  invited;  now  and  again 
townspeople  were  there,  or  visitors  who  came  bear- 
ing the  passports  of  Scholarship  or  Art.  Yet  the 
rooms  were  somehow  never  crowded,  as  they  were 
never  less  than  charming.  The  president's  wife, 
in  a  mysterious  fashion  of  her  own,  kept  the  as- 
semblages as  she  wanted  them,  and  they  remained 
in  memory  with  a  queer  grateful  fragrance,  like 
lavender  sachets.  Even  the  tea  was  different  and 
better  than  that  one  drank  elsewhere — a  kind  of 
Russian  blend.  Mrs.  Craven  liked  to  have  you 
praise  it,  but  when  you  asked  her  where  she  got  it 
she  only  smiled.  Indeed,  some  of  her  many  lovers 
said  you  might  as  well  ask  her  where  she  got  her 
[  104  ] 


THE     PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

still,  placid,  satisfying  manner,  her  sympathetic, 
low  voice,  her  delicious  attar-of -roses  conversation 
— so  pleasant  and  so  rare.  That  tea,  they  insisted, 
was  the  common  garden  Hyson  of  the  grocer's 
shop ;  but  in  Mrs.  Craven's  hands  it  became — what 
you  knew.  What  could  you  expect — since  the 
hands  were  Mrs.  Craven's? 

Bradford  and  Kate  came  in  togather.  Kate 
was  the  Doctor's  ewe  lamb.  Looking  at  Kate's 
thews  and  sinews,  one  doubts  the  applicability  of 
the  metaphor.  Let  us  then  say  simply,  Kate  was 
the  one  graduate  student  in  Greek.  The  Doctor's 
Greek  was  his  wine  of  life;  Kate  was  the  spice  in 
the  wine. 

Bradford  and  the  Doctor — everyone  called  him 
the  Doctor,  even  his  wife — he  was  that  kind  of 
man — fell  into  shop-talk,  while  Mrs.  Craven  wel- 
comed Bradford,  poured  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
asked  about  his  European  journey.  Her  words 
were  the  simplest  possible,  but  somehow  Bradford 
felt  that  she  was  really  interested.  That  was  Mrs. 
Craven's  way.  But  presently  he  was  driven  away, 
and  found  himself  talking  to  a  woman  of  a  very 
different  sort.  Miss  Mangier  was  the  one  woman 
[  105  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

member  of  the  faculty  of  Carfax  College.  She 
was  an  assistant  in  history.  The  undergraduates 
called  her  "  The  Curse." 

She  included  in  her  vestal  smile  both  Bradford 
and  the  tall'  assistant-professor  of  mathematics. 
"  Have  you  seen  our  author?  "  she  inquired.  "  No? 
Oh,  you  must."  She  showed  her  teeth,  of  which 
she  was  justly  proud.  "  Very  handsome,  very  ma- 
licious, and  very  popular  of  course.  But  not  with 
me;  not  with  me." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  politely  inquired  the  assistant- 
professor  of  mathematics.  (His  name  was  Car- 
hart,  by  the  way,  but  so  few  people  knew  him  that 
it  had  almost  fallen  into  disuse.) 

"  He  quotes  Longfellow,"  she  shuddered. 
"  Longfellow  is  the  curse  of  America.  We  cry  to 
our  poets  for  meat,  and  are  fed  on  mush." 

"  William  Longfellow  is  captain  of  the  eleven," 
murmured  the  assistant-professor  of  mathematics. 
"  I  must  inquire  whether  they  are  related." 

"  At  least  they  are  not  the  same,"  retorted  Miss 
Mangier,  tartly. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  placidly  responded  the  as- 
sistant-professor. 

[106] 


THE     PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

"  But  which  of  these  people  is  the  author? " 
asked  Bradford,  with  an  appearance  of  interest. 

"  The  one  with  the  pink  eyes,"  she  snapped. 
"  You  should  meet  him.  He  borrows  his  style, 
steals  his  incidents,  and  copies  his  characters.  Sec- 
ond-hand literature  is  the  curse  of  America." 

"  Have  you  met  him  ?     Will  you  present  us  ?  " 

"  I  have  not,"  she  answered ;  "  nor  do  I  expect 
to."  Miss  Mangler's  air  was  that  of  one  who 
would  resist  to  the  uttermost  any  attempt  to  force 
the  acquaintance.  At  this  moment  a  woman  in 
the  group  around  the  author  beckoned  to  The 
Curse.  Miss  Mangier  left  them  almost  with  a 
rush.  The  next  instant  they  beheld  the  author's 
introduction,  and  Miss  Mangier  in  animated  con- 
versation with  him. 

"  The  curse  of  America,"  muttered  the  assistant- 
professor  of  mathematics. 

"  The  curse  of — Carfax,"  responded  Bradford. 
Carhart's  eye,  revolving  in  his  direction,  kindled 
slightly,  though  his  sad  mouth  remained  un- 
changed. "What  do  you  think?"  he  asked, 
with  grave  irrelevancy,  "  of  the  chances  of  the 
eleven?  " 

[107] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  I  think  more  of  the  chances  than  I  do  of  the 
eleven,"  answered  Bradford.  "  But  I  really  don't 
know.  I  only  got  back  two  days  ago." 

"  Really?  "  inquired  the  assistant-professor,  with 
mournful  courtesy.  He  seemed  to  ponder  the 
statement  in  all  its  bearings.  Then  he  remarked, 
"  We  should  win  from  Upton,  however." 

"  We  should,"  said  Bradford;  "  but  shall  we?  " 

"I  think  we  shall,"  replied  Carhart.  "  I— 
think — we — shall."  He  observed  the  tea-table,  or 
its  whereabouts,  narrowly,  and  fell  silent  once 
more. 

Suddenly  Bradford  ejaculated  something.  Car- 
hart,  turning  his  head,  seemed  mildly  to  interro- 
gate him,  and  he  went  on,  with  a  laugh, 

"  There's  Murdoch,  the  pickle-maker." 

"  Proprietor  of  the  Shakespeare  Brand — yes," 
admitted  Carhart,  without  turning  his  glance  that 
way. 

"  What  is  Tie  doing  here  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  elected,  I  believe,  to  the  board  of 
trustees." 

"  Murdoch?  " 

"  Yes.  He  used  to  play  guard  on  the  eleven ; 
[108] 


THE    PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

left  guard,  I  think  it  was;  but  I  cannot  seem  to 
remember." 

To  this  athletic  reminiscence  Bradford  paid  no 
heed.  "  Curious,  that !  "  he  remarked. 

The  assistant-professor  digested  this.  "  Not  cu- 
rious," he  replied  at  length.  "  He  was  a  good 
guard.  I  wish  we  had  as  good  a  one  now."  He 
sighed  gently.  "  What  do  you  think  of  the 
chances — ah,  pardon.  I  think  I  asked  you  that  be- 
fore." 

"  I  must  be  hunting  up  other  friends,  I  am 
afraid,"  interrupted  Bradford,  rapidly.  "  Social 
duties,  you  know.  Good-afternoon,  Mr. — ah — 
Carhart;  I'm  awfully  glad  to  have  seen  you." 

Carhart's  sad  eyes  followed  him  as  he  hastened 
away.  They  saw  everything;  they  had  seen  the 
indifferent  curve  of  his  lips.  "But  this,  of  course, 
Bradford  did  not  know.  He  was  looking  for 
Marion  Craven,  and  presently  he  discovered  her, 
in  a  corner  with  Kate.  Kate  was  talking  animat- 
edly, and  Miss  Craven  was  flushed  a  trifle. 

"  Hope  I  don't  interrupt?  " 

"  No." 

"  Miss  Craven,  I  wish  you  would  do  me  a  great 
[109] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

favor — the  kind  of  favor  which  will  deliver  me 
helpless  into  your  hands." 

"  I  sha'n't  know  what  to  do  with  you,  but  I'll 
be  glad  to  grant  the  favor." 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  girl  in  gray  ?  " 

"  Which  little  girl  in  gray  ?  Even  I  am  wear- 
ing gray.  This  is  a  gray  year,  Mr.  Brad- 
ford." 

"  I  mean  the  one  with  her  uncle,  the  pickle- 
maker,  yonder.  The  one  who  makes  the  gray  look 
spring-like ;  you  can't  miss  her." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  the  rest  of  us  make 
it  look  sere,  Mr.  Bradford?  In  the  name  of  the 
Prophet — thanks !  " 

Bradford  reflected  that  he  had  never  liked 
Marion  Craven — which  was  not  true ;  it  was  merely 
the  reflex  of  his  embarrassment.  But  he  hastened 
to  say,  with  a  smile, 

"  I've  met  her,  you  see,  but  I'm  afraid  she  may 
not  remember  it ;  it  was  hurried.  I  want  somebody 
influential  to  vouch  for  me." 

Miss  Craven  vouched  for  him,  and  in  a  moment 
he  found  himself  bowing  to  the  young  woman  he 
had  been  speculating  about.  Her  name,  he  learned, 
[110] 


THE    PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

was  Power — Amy  Power.  For  the  first  time  he 
could  see  her  fairly. 

She  was  very  young — not  more  than  nineteen. 
When  she  spoke  his  name  her  voice  was  as  cool  as 
a  trout-brook  in  August.  For  a  description  of  her 
face  as  it  appeared  to  Bradford  one  must  refer  to 
the  dictionary,  in  the  vague  hope,  as  Mark  Twain 
put  it  to  the  Interviewer,  of  treeing  her  in  the 
appendix.  But  then  Bradford  was  quite  ready  to 
be  impressed.  To  Marion  Craven  she  seemed  a 
pretty,  quiet,  well-bred  young  woman,  with  a 
good  deal  of  strength  ready  to  show  itself  in  the 
curves  of  the  mouth  some  day;  and  Miss  Craven 
was  a  much  closer  observer  than  Bradford  was. 
She  talked  with  them  a  moment,  and  then,  like  a 
tactful  hostess,  slipped  away. 

"  I  asked  her  to  introduce  me,"  said  Bradford, 
"  because  I  thought  in  the  hurry  of  the  station  the 
other  night  you  probably  didn't  notice  my  face, 
and  might  not  remember  me." 

"  I  remember  you  very  well,"  she  answered. 

"  You  live  in  Carfax  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Have  you  been  coming  out  to  Mrs.  Craven's 
[111] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

teas  often  ?  It's  odd  we  haven't  met.  She  is  very 
good  to  me;  she  lets  me  ramble  among  the  salted 
almonds  as  I  please." 

"  I  have  never  been  here  before." 

Just  out,  Bradford  fancied;  she  had  probably 
been  in  boarding-school  fifteen  months  before,  when 
he  had  left  Carfax.  He  dredged  his  brain  for 
something  admirable  to  say,  but  brought  up  only 
commonplaces,  which  he  hesitated  to  offer  her. 
The  more  he  looked  at  her,  the  more  he  was  in- 
clined to  believe  that  America  had  found  a  way  to 
abrogate  the  laws  of  heredity.  She  was  no  more 
like  her  mountainous  uncle  than  a  pearl  is  like  a 
brick.  She  seemed  not  to  mind  the  silence,  and 
they  sat  quietly  a  moment.  Across  the  room  that 
uncle  was  holding  sonorous  conversation  with  Dr. 
Craven,  and  the  words  came  to  their  ears  with  no 
diminution  of  force. 

"  Expansion  is  the  motto  of  the  country,"  they 
heard  him  say.  "  Everything  is  branching  out. 
We  need  to  follow  the  rule  of  the  times.  Why 
should  Carfax  young  men  go  away  from  Carfax 
to  study  law  or  medicine  or  theology?  Young 
men  from  the  outside  ought  to  be  coming  here  for 


THE    PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

those  branches.  Carfax  is  the  centre  of  the  coun- 
try's manufacturing,  in  some  lines  at  least " — he 
was  thinking  of  the  pickle  business,  reflected  Brad- 
ford, cynically — "  why  shouldn't  we  make  it  the 
centre  of  the  country  in  education  as  well?  "  He 
squared  his  shoulders  till  the  president  was  hidden 
from  view,  and  the  "  we  "  seemed  to  represent  only 
Murdoch's  massiveness.  Probably  the  President 
made  some  reply,  but  it  failed  to  reach  Bradford 
and  Miss  Power. 

"  Your  uncle  makes  himself  heard,  doesn't  he  ?  " 
ventured  Bradford. 

"  Such  men  as  that,"  a  voice  cried  in  his  ear, 
"  are  the  curse  of  America.  They  are  raw  mate- 
rialism. They  have  no  ideals,  because  ideals  have 
no  price  on  the  stock-exchange."  Miss  Mangier 
stood  before  them. 

"  Miss  Mangier — present  Miss  Power,"  mur- 
mured Bradford,  gently.  Never  before  had  he 
welcomed  the  coming  of  The  Curse. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  my  uncle?  "  inquired 
Miss  Power,  indifferently.  Miss  Mangier  heard, 
looked,  comprehended,  gasped,  and  fled.  Bradford 
chuckled. 

[113] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  You  did  that  beautifully,"  he  commented. 

"  She  seems  a  foolish  woman,"  said  Miss  Power. 
Bradford  could  have  applauded  her  serenity.  He 
was  growing  surer  every  moment  that  this  diamond 
was  not  paste. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said,  "  I  am  glad  you  re- 
membered me." 

She  smiled  slowly.  "  For  two  days  ?  I  shall 
remember  you  longer  than  that,  Mr.  Bradford. 
It  is  you  who  have  forgotten  that  I  heard  you 
sing." 

"  You  have  remembered  that,  too?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  odd,"  said  Bradford,  irrelevantly,  "  that 
Mr.  Murdoch  should  be  your  uncle." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  he  confessed,  foolishly. 
He  stared  from  her  fresh  young  beauty  to  Mur- 
doch. Alas  for  him!  the  pickle-maker  caught  his 
glance,  and  came  over.  He  seized  Bradford's 
hand  with  so  loud  an  expression  of  good-will  that 
it  might  almost  have  been  called  a  cheer.  "  Ha ! 
It's  young  Bradford !  Well,  this  is  agreeable." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Murdoch,"  answered 
[114] 


THE    PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

Bradford,  uneasily.  He  felt  somehow  effaced — 
rubbed  away. 

"  How's  all  with  you?  "  inquired  Murdoch,  with 
cheerful  heartiness.  "  Been  in  any  more  wrecks, 
eh?  You've  discovered  Amy,  I  see.  She  has 
talked  enough  about  you  the  last  day  or  two.  I 
got  jealous  finally.  I  said,  '  Look  here,  I  pulled 
two  or  three  out  myself;  give  me  a  little  credit, 
won't  you?  But  it  didn't  do  a  bit  of  good." 

Bradford  dared  to  glance  at  Amy.  To  his  sur- 
prise, she  was  regarding  him  without  a  touch  of 
embarrassment;  looking  at  him,  he  fancied,  indig- 
nantly, as  if  he  had  been  a  giraffe,  or  a  calf  with 
two  heads,  or  any  other  object  of  legitimate  curi- 
osity. She  was  sitting  in  judgment  on  him,  he 
fancied.  Uncle  or  no  uncle,  she  saw  this  man's 
innate  vulgarity  as  clearly  as  he  did,  and  saw,  too, 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  repel  it.  Bradford 
pulled  himself  together. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  your  election  to  the 
board  of  trustees,  Mr.  Murdoch,"  he  said. 

"Eh?  What?  Oh— thank  you,  thank  you. 
Yes,  I'm  to  be  a  new  broom.  I  may  have  a  little 
sweeping  to  do ;  I  don't  know.  By  the  way — have 
[115] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

you  heard  from  Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper 
yet?  » 

"  Yes.  I  had  their  letter  this  morning."  It 
was  no  use,  thought  Bradford,  bitterly,  to  divert 
the  attacks  of  this  behemoth;  he  patronized  and 
exhibited  others  just  as  he  patronized  and  exhib- 
ited himself.  He  dragged  everything  into  garish 
light,  and  pointed  to  it,  lest  somebody  should  miss 
it.  Bradford  resolved  instantly  to  throw  Barrett, 
Barrett  and  Cooper  to  the  winds  before  he  would 
be  indebted  to  a  fellow  like  that.  Murdoch  would 
advertise  him  as  he  did  the  pickles — "  our  own 
manufacture  " — the  Murdoch  brand  would  be  on 
him. 

"  I  thought  you  would.  Now,  if  you  can  argue 
a  case  as  well  as  you  can  sing — "  he  turned  to 
the  nucleus  of  a  group  which  his  prominence  had 
collected.  "  Ever  hear  Mr.  Bradford  sing?  "  he 
demanded;  and  then,  laying  his  hand  on  Brad- 
ford's shoulder,  he  described  the  events  of  the 
wreck ;  Bradford  with  a  half-pleased,  half-indiffer- 
ent smile — the  smile  he  thought  he  ought  to  wear — 
upon  his  lips,  and  shame  gnawing  at  his  heart. 

"  Stood  there  like  an  archangel — like  an  arch- 
[116] 


THE    PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

angel,"  the  pickle-maker  cried.  "  I've  heard 
good  singing,  but  I  tell  you  I  never  heard  singing 
like  that  before." 

"  I  hoped  that  perhaps  Mr.  Bradford  would 
sing  for  us,  as  he  used  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Craven's 
quiet  voice  behind  him. 

"  No,  no,"  he  began. 

"  But  yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Murdoch.  "  Go 
on,  young  man;  you  haven't  any  right  to  deprive 
us  of  it." 

The  chorus  about  him  urged  him  on — a  chorus 
he  could  not  help  believing  ironical;  for  he  would 
have  begged  ironically  under  similar  circum- 
stances, and  when  do  we  ever  judge  others  save 
by  ourselves?  Not,  at  least,  until  we  are  older 
and  wiser  than  Bradford  was. 

"  I'm  afraid  my  voice  will  prove  that  Mr.  Mur- 
doch is  a  bad  judge  of  singing,"  he  protested. 

"  Please  sing,  Mr.  Bradford."  Miss  Power 
somehow  impressed  him  with  her  sincerity.  He 
had  often  sung  to  Marion  Craven's  accompani- 
ment. Now  he  chose  from  her  music  a  little  song 
of  Nevins's — "  Dites-moi,  belle  enchanteresse  " — 
and  she  played  while  he  sang  it.  Out  of  the  cor- 
[117] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

ner  of  his  eye  he  glanced  at  Miss  Power.  She  was 
sitting,  her  face  turned  directly  toward  him,  her 
hands  folded  quietly  in  her  lap,  given  up  to  the 
music  and  forgetful  of  everything  else  around 
her.  What  a  blissful  unconsciousness  of  self! 
he  thought.  And  he  sang  tenderly,  caressingly. 
The  tinkle  of  teaspoons  stopped  entirely,  and  he 
knew  that  he  held  the  company.  Then  he  played 
with  them,  as  he  loved  to  do — made  them  smile 
and  frown  and  sigh  as  he  chose.  And  as  he  sang 
on,  he  forgave  Murdoch — for  undoubtedly  the 
pickle-maker  meant  well,  if  he  were  clumsy  as  a 
hippopotamus  in  showing  it;  he  forgot  that  he 
had  intended  to  refuse  Murdoch's  offer.  What  he 
remembered  was  that  everyone  in  the  room  was 
thinking  of  him  and  his  song.  He  smiled  with  the 
pleasure  of  it,  letting  his  voice  wander  softly 
through  the  notes,  stealing  a  look  now  and  then 
at  the  little  girl  in  gray,  till  he  almost  fancied  that 
he  was  singing  to  her  only,  and  she  knew  it,  and 
would  answer  when  he  finished.  He  ceased  ab- 
ruptly. After  a  moment,  people  moved  restless- 
ly, as  those  do  who  are  gently  waked,  and  two  or 
three  tried  to  tell  him  of  their  enjoyment.  But  he 
[118] 


THE    PRESIDENT    AND    AMY 

put  them  aside,  and  went  confidently  to  Miss 
Power. 

"  Did  you  like  it  ?  "  he  asked,  under  his  breath. 

"  Very  much,"  she  answered,  quietly.  It  affected 
Bradford  as  cold  water  would  have. 


[119] 


Chapter  Seven 

ENTER   CLAEGES 

Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper  spread  their  law- 
offices  over  the  top  floor  of  the  Galton  building. 
To  have  office  room  at  all  in  the  Galton  building 
is  a  certificate  of  character.  Galton's  is  almost 
the  smallest  of  the  structures  which  have  made 
Carfax  celebrated.  It  has  been  said  that  mer- 
chants in  Carfax  have  no  chance  of  seeing  into 
heaven  except  from  the  tops  of  their  own  build- 
ings ;  and  there  are  architectural  monstrosities 
which  climb  to  such  a  lofty  height  that  the  state- 
ment is  given  point.  But  the  Galton  building  is 
low — five  stories  in  all.  Old  man  Galton  made  a 
fortune  in  plumbers'  supplies.  He  was  a  whimsi- 
cal old  Scotchman,  of  the  kind  who  save  heroically 
until  they  are  ready  to  spend,  then  spend,  with 
equal  heroism,  to  suit  themselves.  He  determined 
to  erect  a  building  of  a  sort  new  to  Carfax. 
[120] 


ENTER    CLARGES 

"  We'll  have  na  cheap- Johns  in  the  place,"  he 
observed  to  his  architect.  "  Ma  buildin'll  hoose 
only  the  honest  men  o'  Carfax,  and  man,  we'll  mak 
it  sma'  accordin'."  Small  it  was  made;  high  of 
rent;  it  is  always  full,  too,  in  spite  of  the  old 
man's  jest,  and  in  spite  of  the  rigid  examination 
into  business  antecedents  which  every  new  appli- 
cant for  space  must  undergo.  The  untried  lawyer 
and  the  surgeon  who  has  yet  to  flesh  his  instruments 
are  ruled  out  of  Galton's  as  sternly  as  the  pro- 
moter is,  and  men  of  all  sorts  whose  mercantile  or 
professional  morality  will  not  stand  investigation. 
Consequently  an  office  in  Galton's  is  better  than 
standing  in  Bradstreet's. 

Perhaps  the  perfection  of  its  cleanliness,  the 
modernity  of  its  elevators,  the  precise  completeness 
of  its  whole  equipment  have  as  much  to  do  with 
filling  Galton's  as  the  desire  a  man  has  to  be 
known  by  the  company  he  keeps.  Certainly  Alex- 
ander Galton  was  no  jerry-builder.  The  architect 
ventured  to  point  out  that  in  various  fashions 
money  might  be  unostentatiously  saved  here  and 
there,  but  Galton  shook  his  head  serenely. 

"  I'll  be  gettin'  ma  sax  per  centum  yet,"  said 
[121] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

he,  "  an'  as  for  the  rest,  I'll  gie  it  up  for  the 
preeveleege  of  bein'  oreeginal."  Which  he  did, 
and  went  to  his  reward  well  content,  appar- 
ently. 

You  entered  Galton's  by  two  great  doors  which 
swung  easily  and  noiselessly  on  pivots,  into  a  cen- 
tral court  paved  with  gray  marble  in  small  squares. 
A  bronze  statue  of  the  old  man,  in  a  frock  coat, 
with  every  wrinkle  of  his  Caledonian  face  present 
at  the  roll-call,  ornamented  the  centre  of  the  court, 
and  the  names  of  Galton's  tenants  were  arranged 
upon  the  pedestal.  Galton  lay  underneath.  "  Ay, 
man,  put  me  there,"  he  said,  "  with  honest  men  all 
around  me ;  'twill  be  a  treat  to  me  I'm  no  so  used 
to  have  in  Carfax."  Gray  marble  stairs,  made 
broad  and  easy,  climbed  quadrilaterally  about  the 
court,  and  slow,  silent,  comfortable  elevators  were 
ranged  on  one  side.  By  one  of  these  you  were 
carried  to  the  fifth  floor,  if  your  errand  was  to 
Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper's. 

Their  offices  take  up  three  sides  of  the  square. 

You  behold  a  door  beneath  the  comforting  legend, 

blazoned  in  gilt,  "  WALK  IN,"  and  find  yourself 

part  of  a  large  room.     It  is  panelled  in  redwood, 

[122] 


ENTER    CLARGES 

a  redwood  bench  runs  round  two  sides  of  the  pol- 
ished floor,  and  beyond  is  a  Japanese  railing. 
There  sits  an  attendant  in  a  dark-red  uniform,  an 
urbane  and  courteous  young  man  always,  not  to  be 
irritated  or  discomposed.  He  places  your  name  in 
a  tiny  redwood  box  and  releases  a  spring,  where- 
upon the  redwood  box  disappears.  When  it  re- 
turns, if  you  are  permitted  to  pass  the  railing, 
you  go  through  a  solid  and  smoothly  swinging 
door,  to  find  yourself  in  another  ante-room,  red- 
wood like  the  first,  but  smaller,  and  furnished  with 
chairs  instead  of  a  bench.  Through  one  door  of 
this  room,  if  it  chances  to  stand  ajar,  you  may  see 
into  a  very  large  apartment,  occupied  by  numerous 
desks.  This  is  the  famous  Heaven  which  the 
Trinity  rule  over;  the  room  of  the  young  men  of 
Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper;  the  room  to  which 
Bradford  was  admitted  by  virtue  of  the  pickle- 
maker's  favor.  A  desk  in  this  room  was  held  to 
insure  a  man's  future,  if  he  had  the  stuff  in  him. 
Next  to  the  door  of  Heaven  another  door  allowed 
entrance — to  the  offices  of  the  firm?  Not  at  all; 
to  the  offices  of  their  private  secretaries.  Beyond 
that,  however,  at  last,  was  a  hallway,  from  which 
[123] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

you  were  received  into  the  sancta  of  (1)  Barrett 
Junior,  (2)  Old  Tom  Cooper,  (3)  Barrett  Senior 
— the  Carfax  Trinity. 

And  when  you  went  out?  This  ultimate  hall- 
way ended  in  a  door  which  opened  from  the  inside 
only.  Passing  through,  you  found  yourself  be- 
fore the  elevators  again ;  you  had  gone  round  three 
sides  of  a  square,  and  you  were  close  enough  to 
touch,  if  you  were  so  minded,  that  beautifully 
gilded  sign  which  hospitably  urged  you  to 
"  WALK  IN." 

So  Bradford  explained  it  to  the  Residuum  on 
the  evening  after  the  Craven's  tea.  He  smoked 
meditatively  as  he  estimated  the  partners. 

"  I  didn't  much  care  about  '  Son  ' — young  Bar- 
rett, that  is.  He  has  a  black  little,  spiky  little 
beard,  and  a  black  spiky  eye  like  a  tack,  to  match. 
But  the  old  gentleman  is  wonderful.  I  wish  you 
could  see  him,  Shedsy".  I  was  called  into  his  office, 
of  course,  to  be  exhorted.  After  all  those  barriers 
and  fortifications,  what  sort  of  a  man  would  you 
naturally  expect? — a  snaky-headed  dragon  with  a 
Medusa  glare  was  about  what  I  was  looking  for. 
My  knees  wobbled  as  I  walked,  and  I  muttered 
[124] 


ENTER     CLARGES 

prayers.  Behold  a  white-haired,  clean-shaven, 
pink-cheeked,  blue-eyed  old  boy,  like  Friar  Tuck, 
only  not  fat ;  complexion  like  a  girl's ;  and  a  sense 
of  humor  that  must  be  fatal  to  the  business.  He 
talked  to  me  like  a  father ;  told  me  a  long  story  to 
illustrate  the  ways  in  which  I  could  help  out  the 
firm.  You  see  we  are  all  on  salary,  and  any  busi- 
ness we  get  goes  to  the  firm's  exchequer.  He  said 
that  forty  years  ago  he  began  just  as  we  were 
beginning  now.  He  used  to  be  sent  with  blanks, 
and  briefs,  and  so  on,  to  the  printer's,  and  he  got 
to  be  a  friend  of  the  printer's  and  secured  his  con- 
fidence. So,  in  a  few  weeks,  Mr.  Printer  gave  him 
some  bills  to  collect — old  dead  dogs,  that  no  man  in 
his  senses  would  expect  to  get  the  money  out  of. 
But  Barrett  said  he  hammered  away  at  them,  in 
season  and  out  of  season.  One  of  them  was  for 
thirty  dollars,  against  a  contractor  named  Mc- 
Guirk,  who  came  to  see  Barrett,  said  he  couldn't 
pay  that  or  any  other  of  his  bills  anyway,  and 
asked  what  it  would  cost  to  put  him  into  bank- 
ruptcy. Barrett  knew  as  much  about  putting  a 
man  into  bankruptcy  as  a  hen  does  about  swim- 
ming-lessons;  so  he  looked  wise,  and  said  he'd  do 
[125] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

the  job  for  seventy-five  dollars.  McGuirk  snapped 
him  up.  Barrett  put  in  the  night  in  the  calfskin 
library,  and  next  day  he  was  ready  for  anything. 
He  bankrupted  McGuirk,  drew  the  seventy-five, 
gave  thirty  of  it  to  the  printer,  and  turned  in 
forty-five  to  the  firm.  The  contractor  swore  by 
him,  and  so  did  the  printer.  They  brought  him 
some  more  business,  and  of  course  he  turned  that 
into  the  firm  too.  Presently  the  firm — it  was  Ran- 
dolph and  Eastman  in  those  days — called  him  into 
the  office. 

"  '  Mr.  Barrett,'  says  Randolph,  *  how  much  are 
we  giving  you?  ' 

"  '  Fifty  dollars  a  month,'  says  Barrett. 

"  '  And  you  have  been  with  us  ?  ' 

"  '  Ten  months,  sir.' 

"  '  I  find,'  says  Randolph, '  that  you  have  turned 
in,  in  that  time,  six  hundred  and  forty  dollars  in 
fees.' 

"  '  Yes,  sir,'  says  Barrett,  wondering  what  was 
coming,  but  bracing  himself  to  bear  it,  even  if  it 
was  a  full  partnership. 

"  '  H'm,  h'm,'  says  old  Randolph,  nodding  at 
him.  '  Under  those  circumstances — under  those 
[126] 


ENTER     CLARGES 

circumstances,,  we  have  decided  to — make  your 
salary — thirty  dollars.' 

"  *  In  that  case,'  says  Barrett,  very  blank,  you 
may  be  sure,  '  I'll ' 

"  '  A  week,'  continues  Randolph,  placidly.  ' 

"  '  Be  much  obliged  to  you,'  finishes  Barrett, 
with  a  rush. 

"  *  Very  well,  sir,'  answers  Randolph,  without  a 
twinkle.  *  I  have  only  one  suggestion,  Mr.  Bar- 
rett; a  verdict  should  not  be  rendered  until  the 
evidence  is  all  in.'  A  year  later  they  made  him 
a  junior  partner.  '  And  now,'  he  told  me  this  af- 
ternoon, *  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  sit  here  and 
tell  this  story  to  young  men.  I  have  told  it  to 
forty-five  already;  you  are  the  forty-sixth.  Go 
thou  and  do  likewise.' ' 

"  He  must  be  a  Nonesuch,"  said  Shedsy.  "  I 
sh-shall  recommend  to  our  firm  that  we  do  b-busi- 
ness  with  him." 

"What  is  Cooper  like,  Frank?" 

"  All  the  rest  of  the  firm,"  answered  Bradford, 

"  make  me  think   of  overcoats  and  heavy   frosts. 

I  haven't  seen  Cooper  at  all.     They  say  no  one 

ever  does,  at  the  office.     Cooper  is  the  firm's  con- 

[127] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

nection  with  society;  he's  the  man  who  gets  them 
all  the  swell  divorce  suits." 

"  What  p-puzzles  the  Court  is  to  understand 
h-how  your  valuable  services  g-got  recognition, 
Frank.  If  Barrett  And-so-forth  had  known  you 
as  long  as  that  g-good  fortune  has  been  vouch- 
safed to  us,  I  c-could  easily  see  through  it ;  but  not 
at  all.  You  reach  these  sh-shores  from  Europe's 
happier  clime,  and  b-behold  a  menial  domestic 
bearing  a  note  upon  a  silver  salver,  who  awaits 
y-your  arrival.  The  best  firm  of  lawyers  in  Car- 
fax will  be  d-desolated  unless  you  can  spare  them 
the  loan  of  your  talents.  Luck,  luck,  luck !  You 
have  my  Lady  Luck  h-hypnotized  to  a  f-finish, 
Frank." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  must  have,"  answered  Bradford, 
gayly.  "  Pray  for  me  that  she  doesn't  go  back 
on  me,  Shedsy.  But  this  wasn't  luck  altogether. 
Do  you  remember  the  large  and  genial  pickle- 
manufacturer  I  was  telling  you  about — Mur- 
doch?" 

"  The  one  with  a  p-paste-diamond  niece?  " 

"  The  one  I  was  telling  you   about — yes,"  re- 
plied   Bradford,   hurriedly.     "  Well,    he   spoke   a 
[128] 


ENTER     CLARGES 

good  word  for  me;  he  liked  my  singing,  so  he 
thought  I  must  be  a  good  lawyer." 

"  He  got  you  in  there?  " 

Bradford  nodded. 

Shedsy  shrieked  with  laughter.  "  L-lucky  he 
didn't  hear  your  remarks,"  he  cried.  "  Aren't  you 
re-repenting  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  though, 
Frankie?" 

Bradford  reddened.  He  had  begun  to  feel  a 
superior  kind  of  friendship  for  Murdoch,  but  he 
was  not  ready  to  acknowledge  obligation.  That 
last  is  not  true,  either;  he  was  ready  to  acknowl- 
edge obligation,  but  not  to  have  the  obligation  ad- 
mitted by  other  people.  For  the  first  time  since 
his  return  he  began  to  wonder  whether  business 
was  not  changing  Shedsy  for  the  worse — destroy- 
ing a  little  of  his  old-time  delicacy  of  feeling. 
But  the  unconscious  Shedsy  lay  on  his  back  on  the 
couch,  and  lifted  his  heels  comfortably  into  the  air. 

"  There  is  an  innocuous  intellectual  exercise 
which  s-some  call  a  game,"  he  announced.  "  What 
s-say  you,  merry  men  of  the  Residuum;  does 
d-deep  call  unto  d-deep — Whist  ?  "  He  smoked  in 
joyous  puffs.  "  Oh  comfort,  comfort  scorned  of 
[129] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

d-devils  of  boarding-house  keepers!     Life  Hooks 
bright  at  last." 

"  Not  any  whist  for  me,"  said  Kate.  "  I  must 
go  over  to  Dr.  Craven's." 

"  I've  an  errand  into  the  world  too.  I  must  go 
down  and  see  Mr.  Murdoch." 

"  L-look  out  for  the  paste-diamond,"  murmured 
Shedsy. 

"  Shut  up,  Shedsy,"  said  Kate,  good-humor edly. 
Shedsy  looked  up  quickly  at  Bradford,  who  was 
staring  uneasily  at  the  stolen  steins  on  the  mantel- 
piece, his  face  still  flushed  a  little.  A  look  of  won- 
der, and  almost  of  sorrow,  came  into  Shedsy's 
round  blue  eyes. 

"  F-Frank,"  he  said,  in  a  moment,  in  a  tone  of 
abstraction,  "  they  s-say  that  your  p-pickle-maker 
is  going  to  introduce  the  methods  of  the  sh-shop 
into  the  university.  They  say  mine  alma  m-mater 
is  going  to  be  run  on  b-business  principles.  How 
about  it?" 

"  It's  about  time,"  said  Bradford,  starting  up. 
"  Come  on,  Kitty." 

"  Slim,"  said  Shedsy,  when  the  two  were  gone 
out,  "  do  you  think  Kate  meant  anything?  " 
[130] 


ENTER     CLARGES 

"  Meant  anything?  " 

"By  t- telling  me  to  sh-shut  up, 'just  now?" 

"  I  didn't  hear  him,"  answered  Slim,  seriously. 
"  But  I  suppose,"  he  added,  in  a  moment,  "  you 
must  have  been  making  a  noise,  weren't  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wasn't,"  snapped  Shedsy.  Even  a 
momentary  ill-humor  was  so  rare  with  him  that 
Slim  looked  up  in  astonishment.  But  Shedsy  in 
turn  was  staring  uneasily  at  those  stolen  'steins; 
seeing,  not  them,  but  a  face  which  might  lie  be- 
hind them — a  face  with  Eyes,  as  Bradford  called 
it.  The  Residuum  was  four  days  old,  and  poor 
Shedsy  had  begun  to  worry.  But  Eve  entered 
Paradise  on  the  day  after  its  completion.  Shedsy 
should  have  congratulated  himself  on  having 
gained  three  days. 

Kate  and  Bradford  made  their  way  to  the  car. 
That  part  of  Carfax  had  a  curious  look  to  the 
stranger.  It  was  all  in  the  country  when  the  col- 
lege settled  there,  forty  years  and  more  ago.  A 
farm-house,  the  rendezvous  of  duck-hunters  in  the 
sixties,  still  stands  not  above  two  hundred  yards 
from  the  Carfax  athletic  field,  in  acres  which  are 
sadly  shrunken,  but  grown  very  valuable  now. 
[131] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

When  Murdoch  was  in  college  the  swells  of  Carfax 
College  used  to  meet  there  twice  a  year  for  duck- 
feasts — spring  and  fall — in  fond  recollection  of 
the  feats  of  their  fathers;  and  they  would  grow 
hilarious  as  they  toasted  the  ghostly  memory  of 
the  mallards.  The  proprietress  no  longer  allows 
these  riotous  banquets ;  she  is  far  along  in  years ; 
she  wears  a  black  silk  dress  on  week-days,  and,  some 
say,  has  a  card  with  "  Wednesday  "  on  the  lower 
left-hand  corner — though  no  one  is  ever  expected 
or  ever  comes.  Now  there  are  rows  of  cottonwoods 
and  willows,  gaunt  as  suburban  trees  always  are, 
but  still  unvanquished ;  they  keep  guard  over  the 
high-stilted  sidewalks.  One  needs  to  know  the 
region  well  after  dark,  or  he  may  find  himself  tum- 
bled six  feet  or  so  into  a  ditch,  and  fortunate  if 
he  has  no  broken  bones.  The  section  produces 
more  municipal  damage  suits  than  any  other  in 
Carfax.  The  city  is  always  about  to  grade  and 
repair,  but  never  does — like  a  boy  who  grows  so 
rapidly  he  cannot  find  time  to  mend  the  rips  in 
his  trousers.  Carfax  is  spread  well  to  the  north 
of  the  college  now,  along  the  river-bank.  Flats 
occasionally  garnish  the  nearly  vacant  squares. 


ENTER     CLARGES 

The  casual  college  oarsman,  toiling  up  against  the 
current,  beholds  Irish  ladies,  in  scanty  garments, 
attending  to  the  family  wash  or  the  family  disci- 
pline, in  unsavory  rear  areas,  and  he  cries  encour- 
agingly, "  Go  it,  Bridget !  Go  it,  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon !  "  so  that  she  stops  to  shake  her  red  fist, 
impotent  to  seize  him. 

"  Do  you  think,  Frank,"  asked  Kate,  as  they 
made  their  way  along  in  the  September  half-dark- 
ness, "  that  this  talk  of  Carfax  College  being 
turned  into  a  university  amounts  to  anything?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  It's  bound  to  come.  Carfax  is 
getting  too  big  to  be  content  with  a  college." 

"  But  the  other  plan  takes  money — and  where's 
the  money?  " 

"  The  money  evolves,  in  a  case  like  this.  If  we 
had  a  president  who  knew  how  to  ask  for  it,  we 
should  have  had  the  money  long  ago." 

"  Craven  is  the  finest  Greek  scholar  in  the  United 
States,"  said  Kate,  defiantly. 

Bradford  laughed.     "What  of  it?"  he  asked, 

tolerantly.     Kate  was  silent;   the  question  struck 

home;   the   problem   was   stated   in   three    words. 

Kate  felt  a  singular  sympathy  with  the  old  regime, 

[133] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

which,  he  reflected  sadly,  placed  scholarship  above 
buildings.  Not  for  the  first  time  he  began  to 
wonder  if  his  own  nature  and  feelings  were  out  of 
date.  He  looked  at  his  own  carefully  gloved 
hands ;  he  felt  the  spring  and  quiver  of  his  muscles 
under  his  light  clothes,  and  the  oddity  of  his  own 
vocation  in  the  light  of  the  new  Carfaxian  ideals 
became  apparent  to  him.  A  little  loneliness — 
that  loneliness  of  mind  which  besets  the  scholar 
sometimes — crept  over  him.  He  became  aware  of  a 
rush  of  pity  for  Dr.  Craven ;  but  with  it  came  an 
unreasoning  anger  also  against  the  men  who 
wanted  expansion  and  extension.  Kate's  glove 
half-closed  into  a  fist.  He  could  have  argued 
with  a  blow. 

"  I  suppose  you're  right,"  he  answered,  bit- 
terly. 

"  Yes,  I'm  right,"  answered  Bradford.  "  Schol- 
arship is  what  it  always  was,  but  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  organization,  my  son." 

"  I  turn  off  here,"  said  Kate,  abruptly.  "  I'd 
wait,  but  I  see  your  car  is  coming." 

A  maid  took  Bradford's  card  at  Murdoch's,  and 
ushered  him,  without  preliminary  announcement, 
[134] 


ENTER     CLARGES 

into  a  little  sitting-room.  There  was  a  little 
square  table  in  the  middle,  with  a  lamp,  and  beside 
it  Amy  Power,  reading.  She  looked  up  as  the 
door  opened.  Bradford  saw  her  eyes.  The  be- 
ginning of  love  is  as  dateless  as  the  beginning  of 
reforms,  otherwise  one  would  say  that  Bradford's 
story  began  there. 

"  I  came  to  see  your  uncle,"  he  said,  awkwardly, 
and  cursed  himself  for  the  speech. 

"  I  will  tell  him,"  she  answered,  rising. 

"  Don't  go,"  he  begged  her.  "  It — it's  nothing 
particular.  I  only  came  down  to  thank  him  for  a 
kindness  he  did  me." 

"  He  is  always  doing  people  kindnesses,  but  not 
all  of  them  thank  him,"  she  replied. 

"  This  was  an  unusual  kindness."  He  had  not 
meant  to  tell  her,  but  he  found  himself  going  on. 
"  He  has  given  me  the  ring  of  Opportunity,  like 
a  fairy  godmother,  don't  you  know." 

"Yes?" 

He  told  her  about  Barrett,  Barrett  and  Cooper. 

"I  know  Mr.  Barrett,"  she  said.  "The  old 
gentleman,  that  is." 

Bradford  laughed.  "  He's  a  funny  old  chap," 
[135] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

he  said.  "  He  told  me  a  story  about  him- 
self to-day — about  a  contractor,  and  a  printer, 
and  the  first  case  he  ever  had.  'But  we  three 
came  to  very  different  ends,'  said  he.  '  The 
printer  is  dead,  the  contractor  is  in  the  peniten- 
tiary, and  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  tell  this  story 
to  young  men.  You  are  the  forty -sixth  I  have  told 
it  to.'  It  was  amusing." 

"  I've  heard  the  story,"  she  smiled,  "  but  I 
never  knew  that  the  contractor  was  in  the  peni- 
tentiary before." 

Bradford  felt  a  strong  desire  to  bite  his  tongue 
out.  Of  course  she  would  have  heard  the  story — 
that,  he  might  have  known.  And  he  would  be  ex- 
tremely fortunate  if  she  did  not  hunt  that  tale 
down,  just  from  the  naive  interest  she  had  in  her 
discovery.  Bradford  knew  well  enough  the  con- 
tractor was  not  in  the  penitentiary.  It  was  his 
beastly  luck,  he  reflected  forlornly,  to  make  a  break 
like  that  at  the  very  beginning  of  acquaintance- 
ship. However,  he  rushed  on,  feeling  that  he 
might  blot  out  this  detail.  He  might  have  airily 
intimated  that  he  had  put  the  contractor  behind  bars 
because  the  story  seemed  to  need  that  touch,  but 
[136] 


ENTER    CLARGES 

he  felt  instinctively  that  airy  intimations  of  that 
sort  would  be  unpopular  with  this  particular  young 
woman.  So  he  piled  up  reminiscence  after  reminis- 
cence, until  his  rapid  talk  seemed  to  have  thorough- 
ly interested  her.  He  was  again  occasionally  aware 
that  he  made  too  much  of  this  detail  or  not  enough 
of  that — as  when  he  told  her  of  his  shooting- 
scrape  in  Fairfield,  Wisconsin.  He  had  not  really 
struck  the  lumberman  with  a  chair,  nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  he  really  dodged  behind  a  friend  when 
the  man  drew  a  revolver.  But  he  was  in  a  hurry, 
and  her  gray  eyes  were  wide.  Moreover,  that  was 
Bradford's  way.  He  wanted  his  colors  deep  and 
cleanly  contrasted ;  he  had  the  instinct  of  the  artist, 
it  is  true,  but  on  the  other  hand,  whether  heroic  or 
unheroic,  he  had  to  contrive  somehow  to  be  the 
central  figure.  Except  in  eyes,  he  had  little  use 
for  gray ;  small  care  for  punctilious  accuracy,  un- 
less it  served  his  purpose,  when  his  meticulous  mem- 
ory stood  close  to  his  elbow.  Besides,  this  girl  was 
no  prig,  and  to  accuse  her  of  priggish  particular- 
ity in  detail  seemed  disagreeable  to  him. 
"  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  it." 
"  You  would  have  screamed,"  he  laughed. 
[137] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  Were  you  really 
not  hurt  at  all  ? "  she  questioned,  after  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  Just  grazed;  just  so  as  to  scar  up  my  shoulder 
enough  to  show." 

Her  eyes  involuntarily  turned  toward  his 
shoulder,  and  were  as  quickly  withdrawn,  but  not 
before  Bradford  with  real  pleasure  recognized  her 
interest.  He  thought  with  amused  relief  that  it 
was  lucky  she  could  not  see  through  his  coat. 
After  all,  though  there  never  had  been  a  scar,  it 
is  true  he  had  been  missed  very  narrowly. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  tell  you  this  story,"  he 
said,  after  an  instant,  hesitating.  "  You'll  think 
me  a  frightful  egotist.  Really,  though,  I  tell  it 
to  very  few  people.  And  I'd  much  rather  you 
wouldn't  mention  it,  if  you  please." 

"  My  uncle  said  you  would  not  give  your  name 
to  the  reporter  the  other  night,  after  you  sang." 
Her  look  rested  on  him  with  a  young  approval  of 
the  hero  who  was  also  modest.  "  So  I  certainly 
won't  speak  of  this,"  she  smiled.  Bradford  felt 
anything  but  heroic. 

Murdoch  came  in  then.  A  man  was  with  him  in 
[138] 


ENTER     CLARGES 

sacerdotal  uniform.  Bradford,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  loosely  costumed  Congregationalists,  or 
Methodist  exhorters,  who  took  off  their  coats  to 
spread  the  gospel,  took  him  for  a  priest.  "  My 
minister,  Father  Clarges,"  which  was  the  intro- 
duction, did  not  serve  for  enlightenment.  "  My 
minister,"  who  was  a  dark  young  man  of  thirty, 
shook  hands  carelessly.  "  Glad  to  meet  you.  I 
saw  that  you  distinguished  yourself  the  other 
night.  Come  here,  Amy."  He  engaged  her  in 
low-voiced  conversation  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
leaving  Bradford  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Mur- 
doch. Even  the  knowledge  that  priests  are  celi- 
bate did  not  wholly  comfort  Bradford,  who  did 
not  glower  at  Father  Clarges  only  because  he  did 
not  dare. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  Catholic,  sir,"  he  re- 
marked, under  his  breath. 

"  Catholic  ?  "  Murdoch  laughed  till  the  room 
was  full  of  it.  "  Father,  the  young  man  takes  you 
for  a  Catholic."  Bradford  writhed. 

"  It's  a  great  church,"  the  minister  tossed  them. 
"  But  it's  not  mine.  I  have  bestowed  blessings  on 
people  who  thought  it  was,  before  this,  however." 
[139] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

He  went  on  talking  to  Amy,  and  Bradford  apolo- 
gized. 

"  That  don't  matter,"  Murdoch  assured  him. 
"  I  guess  you  pleased  him.  We're  high,  we  are ; 
so  high  we  may  fall  over  any  day,  now.  I'm  in 
it  for  Amy ;  she  likes  the  singing.  How's  Bar- 
rett, Barrett  and  Cooper  getting  on?  " 
"  I'm  barely  started.  I  went  in  to-day." 
"  You'll  find  them  good  men."  Bradford  began 
to  thank  him,  but  Murdoch  waved  him  away. 
"  Nonsense,  young  man.  They'll  be  thanking  me 
some  day.  You  won't  have  much  chance  for  after- 
noon teas,  though.  It's  pull,  pull — one  foot  after 
the  other,  and  the  top  of  the  hill  getting  farther  off 
every  day,  seems  like.  Say,  do  you  like  hills? 
Come  up  to  my  country  place  some  time.  It's 
northwest  about  eighty  miles.  There  I've  got 
hills — hills  and  trees,  the  best  we  can  raise  in  this 
section.  I  won't  have  a  foot  of  timber  cut  on  my 
land  till  it's  absolutely  necessary.  A  tree's  got 
more  soul  than  most  men ;  got  as  much  soul  as  a 
dog,  by  the  Lord  Harry!  It  takes  one  of  those 
pines  of  mine  three  hundred  years  to  grow — three 
hundred  years  of  snow  and  sunshine;  head  up, 
[140] 


ENTER      CLARGES 

heart  clean  all  the  time,  till  it  gets  to  where  it  can 
see  the  world.  And  then  do  you  think  I'm  going 
to  let  some  whipper-snapper  of  a  man  come  along 
with  an  axe  and  a  saw  and  turn  those  three  centu- 
ries into  joists  and  firewood?  No,  sir;  when  God 
wants  those  trees  down,  he  can  blow  'em  down." 
Thus  the  pickle-maker  rambled  on,  thrusting  pos- 
sible gratitude  farther  away  from  him  for  a  while, 
but  gradually  growing  unconscious  of  anything 
but  his  own  enthusiastic  admiration  for  his  pines. 

"  Of  course,  it's  the  associations  of  those  trees 
that  count,"  suggested  Bradford. 

"  That's  it,  associations.  What  they've  seen 
and  outlived — that's  the  thing." 

"  And  yet  I've  heard  rumors — "  Bradford 
stopped. 

"  Well,  sir?  " 

"  I've  heard  rumors  that  the  associations  you 
speak  of  are  going  to  get  a  shock." 

"  How  so  ?     How  so  ?  " 

"  Not  of  the  trees ;  but  of  something  else  that's 
seen  quite  a  bit  of  life,  too." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Carfax   College." 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  What  do  they  say  about  Carfax  College?  " 
"  They  say  it  may  turn  into  a  university,  one  of 
these  days." 

"  They  do,  do  they  ? "  The  pickle-maker 
looked  at  Bradford  keenly.  "  Now,  Mr.  Brad- 
ford, you  let  me  tell  you  a  story.  I  started  in 
business  in  a  small  way,  as  maybe  you  know,  and 
I  hadn't  much  of  a  plant — just  one  building,  and 
it  was  out  west  of  here  about  four  miles.  Well, 
I  made  money  out  there ;  and  what's  more,  I  got  to 
love  the  place.  Seems  mighty  funny  to  a  young  fel- 
low like  you  that  anybody  could  love  a  pickle-fac- 
tory, now  don't  it?  I  went  out  to  that  old  place 
every  morning,  pretty  near,  for  six  years.  I  knew 
every  board  in  her,  and  every  spot  where  the  paint 
was  off.  It  was  mine,  mine,  don't  you  see?  Don't 
you  know  that  sensation,  where  you've  done  some- 
thing d d  good — "  Bradford  glanced  at  the 

minister,  but  Murdoch  never  noticed.  "Something 
you  didn't  know  whether  you  could  do  or  not,  and 
everybody  said  you  couldn't  do?  That  was  me.  I 
was  born  to  love  or  hate,  you  know ;  I  never  can  do 
with  half-way  emotions.  I  never  had  a  child,  but  I 
reckon  I  know  what  it  would  be  to  love  one,  just  the 


ENTER   CLARGES 

same.  Mind  you,  I  was  going  out  to  that  old  fac- 
tory for  years.  I  had  a  partner — third  partner — 
fine  a  young  fellow  as  ever  was,  but  a  bit  conserva- 
tive ;  he'd  rather  walk  than  run,  even  if  he  knew  his 
road;  that  sort  of  man.  Well,  after  a  while  I 
began  to  see  that  my  old  place  was  just  about  at 
the  end  of  her  usefulness  to  me.  If  I  wanted  to 
get  on,  I'd  have  to  branch  out.  My,  but  I  hated 
to  think  of  breaking  up  and  getting  out!  You 
won't  believe  that  either,  perhaps,  but  I  did.  But 
what  was  there  to  do?  Things  were  moving;  I 
had  to  move  too." 

"  I  see,"  said  Bradford,  as  the  pickle-maker 
paused. 

"  But  that  partner  of  mine,"  the  big  man  re- 
sumed, musingly,  "  he  couldn't  look  at  it  just  as  I 
did.  He'd  been  working  out  there  too;  he  was 
part  of  it;  he  felt  toward  it  just  as  I  did.  Only 
he  wasn't  as  sure  as  I  was  that  it  would  pay  to 
tear  down  and  build  bigger.  I  argued  and  ar- 
gued, but  I  couldn't  convince  him,  though  I  man- 
aged to  make  him  believe  I  was  in  earnest  finally. 
So  I  said  to  him  one  day,  '  Sam,'  I  said,  '  will  you 
shoot,  or  will  you  give  the  old  man  the  gun  ?  '  He 
[  143] 


THE  CHAMELEON 
looked  me  right  in  the  eye.  I  tell  you  he  was  a 
first-class  young  fellow.  *  John,'  says  he,  *  is  it 
one  or  the  other?  '  '  Yes,  it  is,'  says  I.  '  Take 
the  weapon,  John,'  says  he,  '  for  I'll  bet  I  never 
could  hit  your  target.'  And  he  drew  out,  and 
went  on  by  himself,  and  he's  doing  well — fairly 
well.  He  spoke  to  me  about  it  once,  three  years 
ago  or  so.  '  I  guess  you  hit  the  bull's-eye,  John,' 
he  said,  '  but  I'm  not  a  bit  sorry  I  kept  off  the 
range.'  That  was  Sam;  he  knew  his  own  mind." 
"  Good-night,  Amy,"  said  the  minister,  ab- 
ruptly, and  came  over  toward  them,  leaving  Miss 
Power.  "  Murdoch,  I  must  be  going.  Will  you 
come  along,  Mr.  Bradford  ?  "  He  took  a  pipe 
from  some  mysterious  pocket  and  filled  it  carefully. 
"  Got  a  match?  No?  Then  I  must  just  use  one 
of  my  own."  He  lit  his  pipe,  puffing  vigorously, 
and  at  some  sign  of  disapprobation  in  Miss  Pow- 
er's eyes  he  smiled.  "  Never  mind,  Amy ;  I'll  be 
gone  in  a  minute.  Come  along,  Mr.  Bradford, 
if  you've  said  good-night."  Bradford  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  away.  It  was  too  obvious  that 
Clarges  was  privileged  in  Murdoch's  house.  Some 
men  might  have  resisted,  run  the  chance  of  making 
[144] 


ENTER      CLARGES 

themselves  ridiculous,  and  ended  by  certain  knowl- 
edge where  Bradford  possessed  only  uncertain 
fear. 

"  Fine  night,"  said  the  minister,  contempla- 
tively, when  they  were  in  the  street.  He  smoked 
like  an  engine  for  two  squares ;  neither  said  a  word. 
"  I  turn  off  here ;  good-night,  Mr.  Bradford."  He 
nodded  and  was  gone,  leaving  Bradford  to  two 
thoughts : 

(1)  Carfax  College  was  likely  to  see  a  revolu- 
tion. 

(2)  What  was  the  exact  relation  of  this  free 
and   easy  minister,  who  was  not  a  priest,  to  the 
Murdoch    household,    and    particularly    to    Amy 
Power? 

This  second  thought  lasted  Bradford  all  the  way 
home — and  after. 


[145] 


Chapter  Eight 

THE   RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

"  Carfax  College,"  said  Bradford  to  Amy  Power, 
"  takes  its  football  as  a  passion,  not  as  an  amuse- 
ment." 

"  But  it  is  only  a  game,  after  all." 
"  No ;  there  you  are  wrong.  It  isn't  a  game, 
it  is  an  outlet  for  the  feelings.  Tennis  is  a  game ; 
horse-racing  is  a  gamble;  but  football  and  bull- 
fighting are  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  In  the 
Middle  Ages,  when  the  knight  was  in  one  mood  he 
flew  a  falcon,  and  in  another  he  smacked  his 
neighbor  over  the  head  with  a  battle-axe.  Now- 
adays, to  express  the  same  moods,  we  play  golf  or 
go  to  a  football  game,  as  the  case  may  be.  Watch 
the  people,  if  you  think  they  are  here  to  see  the 
teams  play.  After  the  game  is  over  one  side  is 
jubilant  and  condescending,  the  other  unhappy 
and  ashamed.  Yet  both  sides  have  done  as  well  as 
[146] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

they  can.  The  fact  is,  of  course,  that  winning 
and  not  playing  well  is  their  aim — which  proves 
what  I  have  just  said.  So  long  as  the  knight 
could  smash  his  neighbor's  skull,  he  cared  very  little 
whether  he  smashed  it  gracefully  or  ungracefully ; 
in  fact,  one  may  say  he  didn't  care  at  all.  That's 
the  way  with  us.  Now  and  then  you'll  hear  a  man 
maintain  that  the  temper  and  tone  of  the  game 
are  everything,  and  the  accident  of  winning  is 
nothing  at  all.  Who  agrees  with  him?  The  side 
that  has  been  licked,  every  time.  The  winning 
side  packs  away  any  such  theories  in  the  camphor 
of  conceit,  for  possible  use  next  year." 

"But,"  she  protested,  "I  don't  think  I  quite 
understand." 

They  two,  in  common  with  all  Carfax,  were  at 
the  Upton  game,  the  game  of  the  year.  Bradford 
had  known  Miss  Power  for  at  least  two  months, 
in  every  day  of  which  he  thought  of  her,  and 
would  have  given  all  he  had  to  know  that  she  was 
thinking  of  him.  Poor  Bradford!  He  had  been 
used  all  his  life  to  drop  the  acquaintance  of  girls 
who  did  not  show  him  promptly  that  they  enjoyed 
his  company.  If  you  wished  Bradford  to  like  you, 
[147] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

you  must  let  him  know  that  you  liked  him.  Alas, 
he  had  found,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  a  girl  whose 
acquaintance  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  drop, 
although  she  did  not  show  she  enjoyed  his  com- 
pany at  all.  Did  she?  Sometimes  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  him,  she  was  so  unmoved  when  he  came ; 
and  yet  she  let  him  come,  and  listened  closely  to 
all  he  had  to  say,  and  seemed  a  little  sorry  when 
he  went.  He  could  have  echoed  her  last  remark; 
he  did  not  quite  understand. 

As  if  in  derision  of  that  remark,  a  long  sustained 
hiss  ran  about  the  crowd,  and  ended  in  a  deep, 
guttural,  angry,  contemptuous  "  ah !  "  A  slight 
pause  followed,  and  then  came  the  thunderous  beat 
of  the  Carfax  College  yell.  It  rolled  about  them 
like  a  wave;  and  then  broke  into  a  foam  of  indi- 
vidual cries.  "  Bragg !  Bragg !  Bragg !  "  they 
shouted. 

"  Look  there ;  that  will  explain  it,"  spoke  Brad- 
ford, his  lip  curling  a  trifle  in  amusement. 

"What  is  it?     What  are  they  hissing  for?" 

"  That  man  Bragg,  whom  they  were  just  cheer- 
ing, is  one  of  the  best  players  we  have ;  he's  a  nice 
fellow,  they  say,  but  he  has  a  nasty  temper.  The 
[148] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

man  on  the  other  team  tackled  him  foul  a  moment 
ago,  and  Bragg  hit  him.  That  is  against  the 
rules,  and  the  umpire  put  Bragg  out  of  the  game, 
as  football  law  requires  him  to  do.  You  see  the 
jesult — hisses  for  the  craven  umpire,  cheers  for  the 
heroic  Bragg." 

"  Eloquently  put,"  said  a  voice  behind  him. 
"  What  a  pity  that  the  umpire  saw  him — isn't  it  ?  " 
They  turned ;  Father  Clarges  bowed,  his  dark  eyes 
resting  momentarily  on  Bradford — ironically, 
Bradford  thought.  "  How  are  you,  Amy  ?  Is 
Mr.  Bradford  lamenting  the  regrettable  absence  of 
the  true  sporting  spirit?  " 

Clarges's  remark  was  the  most  harmless  possible, 
yet  Bradford  was  instantaneously  sure  that  the 
minister  saw  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  If  not, 
whence  rose  the  tone  in  Clarges's  voice,  so  glibly 
expressive  of  amusement  ?  "  Aha,  Mr.  Bradford ; 
I  see  that  you  really  don't  care  a  hang  about 
sportsmanly  ethics,"  said  that  tone.  "  But  the 
thing  nowadays  is  to  be  a  sportsman,  and  you  wish 
to  keep  up  with  the  leaders."  The  exactness  of 
Clarges's  insight  amazed  and  frightened  Bradford, 
who  for  a  short  time  failed  to  reflect  that  after  all 
[149] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

he  did  not  really  know  whether  Clarges  fancied 
anything  of  the  sort.  But  this  reflection  came  to 
him  presently,  and  he  sneered  a  little  at  himself. 
He  knew  that  ordinarily  he  would  have  cared  very 
little  whether  or  not  Clarges  penetrated  his  arcana. 
Bradford  was  always  fancying  that  people  had 
fathomed  him ;  it  gave  him  a  pang  for  a  moment, 
then  he  avoided  those  people  in  the  future.  But 
Amy  Power  was  there,  and  Amy  Power  knew  this 
dark-faced,  saturnine  young  clergyman  intimately, 
that  was  plain ;  and  so  Bradford  was  uneasy  lest 
his  real  colors,  or  real  lack  of  any  colors,  be  re- 
vealed to  her.  He  seized  upon  his  customary 
resource,  rapid  talk,  and  with  a  skilful  ignoring  of 
Clarges  expounded  to  Miss  Power  the  merits  of 
the  game.  Coincident  with  the  dismissal  of 
Bragg  the  half  came  to  an  end.  Neither  Carfax 
nor  Upton  had  scored.  Armed  neutrality  took  the 
place  of  combat  for  a  season.  Bradford  felt  much 
as  he  imagined  the  Carfax  eleven  did.  He,  too, 
was  engaged  in  a  contest.  He  had  a  wholesome 
fear  of  his  opponent.  Only  one  thing  he  was  sure 
of:  Clarges  and  Amy  were  not  engaged.  Whether 
they  were  likely  to  be  was  another  matter;  not 
[150] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

if    he    could    prevent    it,    Bradford    determined 
fiercely. 

Amy  was  wearing  gray  again — gray  furs  and 
a  little  gray  hat.  The  sweep  of  sunshine,  falling 
from  the  west,  dazzled  her  eyes  so  that  she  put  up 
a  gray  muff  to  shade  them.  Below  them,  above 
them,  across  from  them,  surged  the  crowd,  with 
that  uneasy,  slightly  rocking  motion  so  inevitable 
where  many  Americans  are  gathered  together;  it 
is  the  epitome  of  the  nation's  nervousness. 

"  See  you  again,"  remarked  Father  Clarges. 
"  Must  have  a  little  constitutional."  He  made  his 
way  unconcernedly  down  among  the  people,  who 
drew  themselves  out  of  his  path,  and  looked  up  at 
him  annoyed.  He  wore  no  overcoat,  though  the 
wind  was  brisk.  Soon  they  saw  him  stop  to  light 
his  pipe;  then  he  strolled  away. 

"  Curious  chap,"  said  Bradford.  He  tried  hard 
to  keep  his  voice  even.  He  felt  impelled  to  say 
something  of  Clarges.  It  is  certain  that  in  the 
spring-time  the  song  of  the  longing  male  robin 
concerns  the  other  intrusive  suitors.  "  I  thought 
he  was  a  mission  clergyman,  at  first." 

"  No,"  answered  Amy,  "  he  has  our  church.  It 
is  very  large — and  rich." 

[151] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Did  you  notice  his  unconsciousness  ?  "  asked 
Bradford,  speaking  lightly.  "  That's  a  great 
trait,  don't  you  think?  When  he  went  down  just 
now — did  you  see?  He  paid  no  attention  to  any- 
body ;  what  he  wanted  was  to  get  his  pipe  lighted. 
That's  the  kind  of  man  who  succeeds.  We  get 
our  toes  trodden  on,  but  we  admire  in  the  end." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  " 

Bradford  knew  very  well  that  he  liked  Amy 
Power  against  his  will.  He  confessed  it  miserably 
to  himself  sometimes.  For  instance,  such  remarks 
as  her  last,  without  a  particle  of  inflection  whereby 
he  might  guess  what  she  really  meant,  annoyed 
him  horribly.  He  was  aware  that,  under  such  an- 
noyance, his  custom  was  to  flash  back  something, 
careless  whether  it  wounded  or  not,  and  betake 
himself  to  more  congenial  company.  Now  he  suf- 
fered, but  he  stayed;  and  knew  that  he  wanted  to 
stay ;  and  cursed  himself  for  wanting  to  stay. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Individualism  is  all 
that  makes  the  world  go  round.  You  can  call  it 
selfishness,  or  you  can  call  it  concentration,  just  as 
you  please,  but  a  man  must  be  mindful  of  himself 
and  unmindful  of  others,  if  he  is  to  get  on.  He's 
[152] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

here  to  be  interested  in  what  he  himself  is  doing. 
That  is  the  spirit  which  in  war  we  call  Napoleon, 
and  in  literature,  Shakespeare;  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
had  it  and  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation, 
Columbus  had  it  and  discovered  America,  Nero  had 
it  and  lent  Christianity  just  the  impetus  it  wanted, 
and  Father  Clarges — "  he  broke  off  and  laughed. 
He  was  doing  a  contemptible  thing  and  he  knew 
it. 

"  I  don't  think  you  really  believe  all  that,"  she 
answered,  looking  at  him  with  a  puzzled  light  in 
her  eyes.  He  laughed  again  defiantly,  then  more 
softly.  At  least  he  had  interested  her.  "  Well, 
perhaps  I  don't,"  he  confessed.  They  dropped 
the  subject.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had  told 
Amy  Power  of  his  own  dislike  for  Clarges;  had 
spoken  ill  of  Clarges — which  all  the  laws  of  honor 
forbade  a  man  in  his  circumstances  to  do.  But 
his  chief  concern  was — what  did  she  think?  And 
again  he  would  have  given  all  he  had  to  know. 

"  See    old    Carhart,"    he    exclaimed,    presently. 

"  He's  the  queerest  fish  in  the  basket,  Miss  Power. 

Do  you  know  that  he  knows  the  name,  age,  height, 

and  weight  of  every  player  who  ever  wore  the  Car- 

[153] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

fax  green?  If  you  give  him  time,  he'll  tell  them 
all  to  you,  and  tell  you  just  what  every  one  is 
doing  now.  The  night  I  met  you,  at  Craven's — 
do  you  remember? — I  asked  him,  as  you  came  in 
with  your  uncle,  whether  he  knew  Mr.  Murdoch. 
*  Murdoch  ?  '  said  he.  *  Yes ;  he  played  left  guard 
three  years;  he  was  twenty-seven  his  senior  year, 
six  feet  three,  weighed  two  hundred  and  twelve.' 
How's  that  for  accuracy,  Miss  Power?  " 

She  laughed  her  slow  little  laugh.  "  Uncle  will 
be  glad  to  get  those  details,  if  I  can  remember 
them,"  she  said.  "  He's  very  proud  of  his  foot- 
ball, but  I'm  afraid  he's  forgotten  those  things. 
Will  you  tell  them  to  me  again?  " 

Bradford,  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  saying 
that  he  was  not  quite  certain  they  were  accurate, 
was  floundering  the  least  bit,  when  Clarges  re- 
turned. The  intermission  was  over;  the  game  was 
on.  Bradford  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that 
in  the  game  he  was  playing  he  had  to  some  extent 
violated  the  rules. 

Yes,  the  game  was  on;  and  a  cry  went  up  from 
a  dozen  keen-eyed  watchers  in  the  front  row. 
"  Bragg !  Bragg !  Bragg !  "  It  grew  in  volume, 
[154] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

and  was  tossed  up  and  down,  growing  still,  till 
it  ended  in  one  vast,  inarticulate  roar  of  joy. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Amy,  her  eyes  shining  with 
excitement. 

"Why— why— "  said  Bradford,  doubtfully, 
"  it  seems  to  me — yet  it  can't  be — it  is — Bragg 
is  back  in  the  game!  Bragg!  Bragg!  We  have 
a  chance  now." 

"  But  the  ethics  ?  "  Clarges's  face  was  inscrut- 
able. 

"Ethics?"  snapped  Bradford.  "The  umpire 
put  the  man  out;  if  he  found  that  he  did  him  an 
injustice  he  can  put  him  in  again,  can't  he?  " 

"  Not  according  to  the  rules,  I  believe." 

"  The  half  was  up  as  Bragg  was  put  out ;  there 
was  no  more  playing.  If  the  umpire  chooses  to 
rule  that  he  was  wrong  to  disqualify  the  man,  it  is 
his  own  business." 

"  True,"  responded  Clarges.  "  But  I  believe  we 
are  accessories  after  the  fact." 

Amy  continued  to  watch  the  game ;  whether  she 
understood  the  bearing  of  the  conversation  it  would 
be  difficult  to  say. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  when  two  teams  are 
[155] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

very  evenly  matched  a  single  slight  matter  will  be 
enough  to  turn  the  scale  completely  It  seems  as 
if  the  balance,  when  pulled  just  a  little,  tips  more 
and  more  of  its  own  weight,  so  that  in  the  end  it 
has  dipped  away  down.  It  happened  so  now. 
Carfax,  which  had  despaired  of  winning  without 
Bragg,  was  restored  to  complete  confidence  when 
it  had  him  back.  Upton  was  massacred.  The 
final  score  was  twenty-four  to  nothing.  And  Car- 
fax went  crazy;  the  air  was  thick  with  banners; 
long  files  of  men  wavered,  shouting,  in  and  out  and 
up  and  down  the  field,  while  the  poor  Uptonians 
hung  their  heads  and  disappeared,  miserably  con- 
tent if  they  might  escape  without  attracting  at- 
tention. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Amy,  "  I  don't  know  the  rules, 
you  see — tell  me,  was  this  man,  Mr.  Bragg,  taken 
back  according  to  rule  ?  " 

"  It's  hard  to  say.  A  man  who  has  been  taken 
out  can't  go  in  again.  But  the  officials  may  have 
agreed  that  the  half  was  really  over  before  Bragg 
was  put  out;  and  in  that  case " 

"Yes?" 

"  In  that  case,  technically,  he  may  be  said  not  to 
[156] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

have  been  put  out  at  all,  and  to  have  a  perfect 
right  to  play  on." 

"  Technically  ?    But  what  do  you  really  think  ?  " 
Bradford  laughed.    "  I  think  we  won  the  game," 
he  said. 

Clarges  smiled.  "  Facts  are  more  blessed  than 
much  theory,"  he  said.  "  Good-night,  Amy.  I'm 
sorry  there  are  so  few  supporters  of  your  ethics  in 
Carfax,  Mr.  Bradford."  He  touched  his  cap  and 
was  gone  into  the  crowd.  Amy's  eyes  followed  him 
questioningly.  Did  she  want  him  back?  Brad- 
ford would  have  liked  to  strike  him.  Do  not  think 
the  worse  of  Bradford;  he  did  not  show  his  desire. 
And  if  our  own  secret  inclinations  were  habitually 
apparent  to  the  world,  we  should  stand  lower,  most 
of  us,  than  we  do,  by  just  the  distance  that  sav- 
agery stands  below  civilization.  The  years  have 
taught  us  nothing  but  concealment. 

"  Didn't  I  see  you  with  Miss  Murdoch  at  the 
game,  Frank  ?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Power,  Shedsy." 

"  She's  a   s-stunner.     But  whoso  t-touches  fire 
is  liable  to  be  scorched,  Frank." 
[157] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  She's  no  fire,  Shedsy ;  she's  snow ;  cool, 
pure » 

"  Are  you  fellows  going  to  the  m-mass-meet- 
ing?" 

"  I'm  going,  but  not  with  you ;  I  make  part  of 
the  fringe,  with  Dr.  Craven,"  said  Kate.  Shedsy 
glanced  up  at  him,  but  answered  onl}- 

"You'll  go,  Frank?" 

Bradford  knew  from  experience  that  Carfax 
mass-meetings,  after  a  big  game  won,  were  worth 
attendance.  The  students  took  them  seriously. 
Bradford  could  remember  the  days  when  he  had 
been  lifted  up  and  borne  about  on  young  shoulders, 
while  he  clung  to  any  convenient  hair,  and  rejoiced 
to  be  the  centre  of  it  all. 

To-night  across  the  Carfax  quadrangles  the 
howl  drifted — not  the  strong,  sonorous  cheer,  but 
the  faint,  indiscriminate,  unblended  shriek  which 
said,  "  Here  we  are !  We  have  won,  won,  won, 
and  we  mean  to  let  you  know  it."  Snatches  of  un- 
intelligible songs  reached  them  down  the  wind.  As 
they  approached,  the  glare  of  the  fire  against  the 
dormitory  windows  met  them  first,  red  as  blood ; 
then,  as  they  rounded  a  corner,  they  saw  the  fire 
[158] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

itself,  the  centre  of  a  thousand  dancing,  shrieking, 
destructive  students  of  the  liberal  arts  and  the 
sciences,  who  were  celebrating  the  one  thing  which 
man  will  continue  to  celebrate  until  Culture,  with 
its  last  delicate  touch,  shall  snick  his  arteries  and 
let  out  his  blood.  They  were  celebrating  the 
triumph  of  brain  and  body. 

"Looks  like  hell  and  the  devils,  doesn't  it?" 
said  Slim. 

By  the  fire,  not  too  close,  but  still  broad  in  the 
glare,  stood  a  big  hay-wagon,  in  which  the  sheep- 
ish but  happy  eleven  had  been  hauled  to  the  scene ; 
some  of  them  were  still  in  it,  but  most  had  escaped. 
In  it  stood  also  one  William  West,  master  of  cere- 
monies, who  from  time  to  time  introduced  certain 
students  who  essayed  to  address  the  mob  of  der- 
vishes around ;  the  joyful  dervishes  mocking  thereat. 
Beyond,  on  the  edge  of  darkness,  stood  the  spec- 
tators of  the  scene — townspeople,  faculty,  and 
maidservants. 

"  Boys,"  cried  the  stentorian  voice  of  West,  "  it 
is  said  that  some  in  this  vast  assemblage  are  un- 
acquainted with  the  score  of  to-day's  game.  Will 
you  enlighten  them  ?  " 

[159] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

They  counted  in  unison.  "  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five.  Five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty.  Twenty- 
one  !  Twenty-two ! !  Twenty-three ! ! !  Twenty- 
four  ! ! ! !  "  And  then  the  powerful  Carfax  cheer. 

"  Who  is  Billy  West? "  cried  a  voice  in  the 
crowd. 

"  Who,  indeed  ?  "  came  a  squeak  from  somewhere. 
There  was  a  roar,  and  West  blushed  in  the  fire- 
light. 

"  I  have  the  honor,  gentlemen  and  ladies — " 

"  Nine  rahs  for  the  ladies !  Rah,  rah,  rah ! 
Rah,  rah,  rah !  Rah,  rah,  rah !  Ladies !  " 

" — gentlemen  and  ladies,  to  present  Mr.  Richard 
Brown,  who  will " 

"  Dick,  Dick,  we — want — Dick  f  Dick,  Dick, 
we — want — Dick !  "  The  staccato  applause  rose, 
drowning  everything  else.  Mr.  Brown,  very  neatly 
dressed,  and  with  a  perfunctory  smile,  advanced 
to  the  end  of  the  wagon.  Alas  for  him;  he  wore 
a  light  waistcoat,  and  they  would  not  let  him  begin. 

"  Remove  the  vest !  Oh-h,  Dick,  remove  the 
vest!" 

"  Remove  the  smile !  Oh-h,  Dick,  remove  the 
smile!" 

[160] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

"  If  your  sweetheart  could  see  you  now,  Dicky 
dear!" 

"  Dicky  by  any  other  name  would  smell  as 
sweet " 

At  last  he  found  a  lull.  "  Fellows,  I  only  want 
to  say " 

"Say  it!" 

"  Spit  it  out,  Dick." 

"  Let  us  know  your  mind,  old  man." 

"  I  only  wanted  to  say,  Three  cheers  for  Car- 
fax !  "  And  the  crowd  roared  forth  the  three,  and 
three  more  to  keep  them  company,  and  still  three 
for  good  measure;  and  Brown  descended  and 
Green  took  his  place;  and  the  endless  whirling 
farce  went  on,  while  the  fire  blazed  high  in  the  air, 
and  shoved  the  people  back  and  back,  like  a  huge 
red-haired  policeman,  as  its  heat  increased,  and  its 
light  threw  their  faces  into  ghastly  white  relief. 

"  Much  the  same  thing  as  ours  used  to  be,"  said 
Bradford  to  Barnes,  "  only  I  think  we  made  a  little 
more  noise,  perhaps.  And  there  is  nobody  here 
now  like  Pudding  Thomas  to  make  the  crowd 
laugh." 

"True,  O  King!" 

[161] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  It  makes   me  melancholy,  though,"   went  on 

Bradford.     "  Et    ego    in    Arcadia    vixi ;  d d 

smoky  Arcadia,  but  I'm  sorry  to  be  out  of  it  so 
soon !  "     He  sighed. 

"  Go,  then,  my  son,  and  h-howl  among  the 
h-howlers." 

"  They  don't  know  me  any  more,  Shedsy ;  they'd 
put  me  out." 

Shedsy  chuckled  to  himself.  Then  he  slipped 
away  a  moment  into  the  darkness. 

"  I  am  informed,"  thundered  the  master  of  cere- 
monies a  few  minutes  later,  "  that  Francis  Howell 
Bradford,  ninety-blank,  hero  of  the  Carfax  and 
Albans  wreck  at  Hoopsboro,  is  in  the  audience. 
Will  Mr.  Bradford  come  forward  or  would  he 
prefer  to  be  brought  ?  " 

"  Here  he  is,"  shouted  Shedsy,  seizing  him,  while 
others  took  up  the  cry.  Bradford  resisted,  but 
faintly ;  presently  he  was  in  the  wagon,  facing  the 
crowd,  as  he  had  often  been  years  before.  The 
suddenness  of  it,  however,  was  a  trifle  surprising. 
From  the  wagon  the  fire-lit  area  appeared  smaller, 
the  faces  more  ghastly  in  the  glare,  the  ring  of 
darkness  more  sharply  cut. 

[162] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

"  Gentlemen,  Mr.  Bradford ;  Mr.  Bradford, 
gentlemen,"  trumpeted  West.  There  was  an  ex- 
plosion of  cheers,  and  then — silence. 

It  shut  down  around  them  so  unexpected  and  so 
profound  that  the  crackling  of  the  fire  seemed  to 
amazingly  increase,  and  became  like  innumerable 
pistol-shots  in  a  high  wind.  Bradford  stood  there, 
facing  them  all,  in  his  element;  at  ease,  and  com- 
pletely happy. 

"  Sing ! "  cried  a  voice.  Bradford  held  up  his 
hand. 

"  Join  in  the  chorus,  boys."  His  voice  found 
even  the  limit  of  the  crowd,  where  the  wives  of 
the  professors  stood.  He  sang  them  the  old  march- 
ing-song, as  he  had  sung  it  years  before,  and  they 
joined  in  the  chorus  crashingly,  till  the  snapping 
fire  wavered  so  it  almost  seemed  the  stars  were  wav- 
ering too. 

Walk  around,  boys,  walk  around  t 
Walk  around,  boys,  walk  around  ! 

Hit  her  up  a  little,  boys,  hit  her  up  a  little,  boyt,  hit  her 
up  a  little,  boys, 

Walk  around  ! 

Drink  her  down,  boys,  drink  her  down  I 
Drink  her  down,  boys,  drink  her  down  I 

[163] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Drink  her  down  to   Carfax,  drink  her  down  to  Carfax,  drink 
her  down  to  Carfax, 

Drink  her  down  I 
So  here's  to  you  and  here's  to  me,  and  here's  to   Carfax,  that 

makes  three, 
And  you  never  will  discover  a  finer  trinity, 

So  drink  her  down.     Walk  around  ! 

He  still  stood  in  the  wagon,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  final  chorus,  suddenly  that  extraordinary,  ex- 
pectant silence  fell  again — something  tangible; 
the  silence  of  curiosity.  Then  Bradford  leaned 
forward  and  began  to  speak.  As  he  waited  for 
the  chorus  to  finish,  the  thought  had  come  to  him 
and  set  his  pulses  beating.  Looking  away  into 
the  darkness,  he  saw,  as  plainly  as  if  it  had  been 
in  reality  there,  the  dark  face  of  the  priest,  with 
the  tiniest  trifle  of  an  ironical  sneer;  and  he  saw, 
too,  a  face  with  gray  eyes.  What  was  this  clam- 
orous crowd  to  Bradford?  Only  the  stage  and 
the  audience.  The  joy -light,  the  battle-light, 
flickered  unseen  in  Bradford's  eyes;  he  felt  the 
racing  blood  in  his  veins,  and  braced  himself  for 
what  he  was  to  do.  He  would  prove  to  Clarges 

"  Boys !     Fellows    of    Carfax !     Most    of    you 

don't  know  who  I  am " 

[164] 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

"  Oh-h,  yes,  we  do !  " 

"  Only  that  I'm  an  old  glee-club  man  who 
wanted  a  chance  to  air  his  voice.  But  I'm  a  Car- 
fax man  all  right;  I  have  the  credentials  in  my 
trunk.  I  see  Dr.  Craven  out  there;  he  used  to 
shake  dice  every  Saturday  afternoon  for  four  years 
to  see  whether  I  got  through  or  not;  but  the 
dice  fell  my  way — somebody  had  loaded  them — 
and  I  came  through."  He  dropped  his  voice  a 
trifle.  "  And  you  don't  know — though  you  will 
when  you've  been  out  four  years,  as  I  have — what 
old  Carfax  is  to  me.  Well — that's  all  right,  you 
think;  but  this  meeting  isn't  an  autograph  album 
for  me  to  write  a  sentiment  in.  So  there's  only 
one  thing  I  want  to  say.  It's  a  strong  thing,  and 
I'm  afraid  you'll  think  it's  an  ungrateful  thing; 
but  I  believe  it's  a  right  thing,  and  so,  strong 
and  ungrateful  if  it  be,  I  want  to  say  it.  I  have 
been  thinking  about  it  all  the  evening.  Understand 
this  first:  I  make  no  reflections  on  the  attitude  of 
any  man  here.  I  state  my  own  feelings  merely. 
And  it  is  this:  Jimmy  Bragg  should  never  have 
been  allowed  to  go  back  into  that  game  to-day." 

There  was  a  silence  then !  Not  a  single  spurting 
[165] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

cheer;  not  a  groan;  not  a  sound.  Every  person 
there  was  listening. 

"  He  is  a  player  whose  skill  needs  no  words  of 
mine  to  praise,"  hurried  on  Bradford  intensely. 
"  He  is  a  man  who  is  justly  popular  wherever  he 
is  known.  The  umpire  himself,  in  reinstating  him, 
admitted  that  he  had  been  unjustly  taken  out. 
But,  fellows,  to  put  a  man  back  is  against  the  rules 
of  the  game !  To  take  advantage  of  a  technicality 
is  against  the  spirit  of  the  game!  You  say,  per- 
haps, it  is  the  umpire's  business,  and  that  is  true; 
but  it  is  our  business  also — your  business,  and  my 
business,  as  square  men  and  lovers  of  square,  clean 
sport.  You  see  by  the  score  we  could  have  won 
anyway.  We  had  them  beaten  in  that  second  half. 
Well,  we  have  the  victory  now ;  the  banner  is  float- 
ing over  us ;  but,  fellows,  what  would  you  give  to 
have  it  floating  there — without  the  stain !  " 

Still  there  was  dead  silence.  In  the  same  un- 
natural quiet  Bradford  bowed,  easily  and  grace- 
fully; his  face  was  flushed  but  unexcited.  The 
clapping  of  a  single  pair  of  hands  fell  upon  their 
ears,  and  everybody  turned.  Dr.  Craven's  white 
beard  was  plain  to  be  seen;  standing  tall  in  the 
[166] 


THE    RULES    OF    THE    GAME 

firelight,  he  was  clapping  heartily.  One  and  an- 
other, here  and  there,  took  it  up,  but  only  a  few. 
And  Bradford  got  down  from  the  wagon  and 
crossed  the  firelit  space;  and  all  the  way  his  blood 
was  racing,  and  his  eyes  were  shining,  and  he  was 
thinking, 

"I  did  it!  I  did  it!  I  did  it!"  His  steps 
kept  time. 

Shedsy  seized  him  by  the  arm.  "  R-raving 
good,  oh,  r-raving  good,  Frank!  You're  just  ex- 
actly right!  I  f-felt  that  way,  too,  but  I  didn't 
know  h-how  to  say  it.  It  was  fine !  " 

Bradford  gripped  his  hand.  His  voice  was  re- 
strained and  tense. 

"  A  man  has  to  speak  sometimes,  when  his  heart 
is  full,  Shedsy!" 


[167] 


Chapter  Nine 

TEN    MILLION   AND    A    GIRL 

The  breakfast  room  at  Murdoch's  was  small  and 
almost  as  simply  furnished  as  the  dining-room  of 
the  Residuum,  but  the  simplicity  was  that  of  cost- 
liness. Anyone  may  gain  a  reputation  for  taste 
nowadays  if  he  goes  to  the  right  shop,  as  Murdoch 
made  a  habit  of  doing.  The  room  was  six-sided, 
and  panelled  nearly  to  the  frieze  with  silver  birch. 
The  three  windows  all  looked  out  upon  the  lawn, 
one  to  the  east,  two  to  the  south.  Opposite,  fast- 
ened to  the  space  above  the  panelling  by  some  in- 
visible contrivance,  hung  three  pictures,  all  water- 
colors,  and  all  of  Murdoch's  woods  and  river  "  up 
north." 

Murdoch's  face  appeared  suddenly  from  a  cloud 
of  Sunday  newspaper.  "  Amy,"  he  asked,  "  did 
you  go  to  the  football  game  yesterday  with  young 
Bradford?" 

"  Yes,  Uncle." 

[168] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

"  Have  a  good  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes."  She  might  have  answered  as  en- 
thusiastically had  he  asked  her  if  she  liked  choco- 
lates, or  whether  it  was  a  fine  day. 

"  That's  a  nice  boy,"  consented  Murdoch,  begin- 
ning to  smile.  "  Say,  Amy,  when  I  think  of  him 
singing  away  that  night,  I  love  him ;  I  really  do." 

"  What  makes  you  think  of  him  now  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Oh — here's  something  about  him  in  the  paper. 
He's  been  distinguishing  himself  again,  but  he 
seems  to  have  made  sort  of  a  mess  of  it  this  time. 
I'll  back  him  to  be  right,  though.  All  he  needs 
to  learn  is  that  there's  a  time  to  tell  the  truth,  and 
a  time  to " 

"To  lie,  Uncle  Jack?" 

The  pickle-maker  laughed  his  big  laugh,  got  up, 
and  tossed  her  the  sheet.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  a  time 
to  keep  still,  that's  all.  Here;  you  see.  By  the 
way,  you'll  have  to  go  to  church  for  both  of  us, 
girlie — I'm  busy  this  morning.  You  may  have  a 
surprise  before  long — you  and  Carfax.  I'm  not 
saying  anything  definite,  but  I  tell  you  maybe. 
I  hope  you'll  like  it  when  it  comes.  Say,  Amy  ?  " 
[169] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"Yes?" 

"  I'm  all  the  father  and  mother  you've  got,  you 
know.  Is  there  anything  you  want  that  you 
haven't  got?  " 

"  Nothing  that  you  can  give  me,  Uncle  Jack." 

"  Try  me  and  see." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  considering,  "  I  wish  I  had 
a  quicker  way  of  drying  my  hair,  it's  so  thick." 
She  looked  at  him  gravely.  "  Nothing  else." 

"  That  stumps  me,"  he  admitted.  "  But,  Amy 
— you  know  I  care  about  you,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  answered,  a  trifle  surprised. 

"  You  know  that  whatever  I  do  I'll  be  thinking 
about  you,  don't  you?  " 

Amy's  caresses  were  very  rare.  Now  she  put 
her  hand  on  his,  while  he  stood  by  her.  "  Yes, 
dear,"  she  said  again,  and  his  face  cleared.  When 
he  had  gone,  she  wondered  what  was  bothering  him ; 
he  was  seldom  so  serious.  The  thought  crossed 
her  mind  that  he  might  have  made  some  mistake 
in  the  business — "  the  business  "  was  quite  vague 
and  formless  to  Amy — and  she  looked  after  him 
affectionately.  In  a  moment  she  took  up  the 
paper,  and  read  the  account  of  Bradford's  speech 
[170] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A    GIRL 

at  the  mass-meeting.  His  position  was  very 
plainly  sneered  at  by  whoever  had  written  the 
article ;  she  could  catch  the  contempt  even  through 
the  veil  of  technicalities  which  obscured  it.  She 
read  the  bit  over  two  or  three  times.  Then  she 
nodded  decisively,  put  her  elbows  on  the  table  and 
her  chin  in  her  hands,  and  stared  for  some  time 
across  the  breakfast-china. 

Afterward  she  muffled  herself  in  her  furs,  and 
went  to  church.  She  was  a  very  constant  church- 
goer. St.  Hilda's  is  a  curious  structure  to  the 
casual  and  uninitiated  stranger.  It  is  very  long, 
very  high,  very  narrow,  very  white.  There  are 
altars,  little  and  big;  mysterious  doors,  whence 
unexpected  chanting  processions  issue;  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  well-meant  mortuary  adornment.  The 
acoustics  are  so  bad  that  Father  Clarges  has  hung 
over  the  lectern  an  old-fashioned,  ungilded  sound- 
ing board,  which  seems  almost  the  one  touch  of 
solidity  among  the  filigree  of  St.  Hilda's. 

Clarges  never  read  his  ten-minute  sermons,  but 

delivered  them  with  a  straightforward  spontaneity. 

Christ,  in  a  crimson  robe,  blessed  the  kneeling  John 

in  a  stained-glass  window  behind  him ;  and  on  sunny 

[171] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Sundays  a  shaft  of  crimson,  striking  down  across 
the  minister's  shoulder,  splashed  his  hands  red  as  he 
laid  them  flat  before  him  on  the  gilded  railing.  His 
clean-shaven  lips  were  almost  gloomy  as  he  urged 
upon  his  congregation  the  necessity  of  sincerity. 
The  sharp  little  sentences  flashed  in  and  out  like  so 
many  needles. 

"  Sincerity  is  life.  Insincerity  is  death.  One 
is  growth  and  flow;  the  other  decay  and  stagna- 
tion. Half  a  loaf  is  worse  than  no  bread;  and 
just  so  half  a  heart  is  worse  than  no  heart.  Say 
what  you  mean;  be  what  you  are.  The  religion 
of  Christ  began  in  a  small  country  and  among  a 
humble  folk.  It  spread  till  it  filled  the  whole 
world.  Why?  Because  the  men  who  believed  in 
it  believed  in  it  sincerely ;  preached  it  whole-heart- 
edly ;  died  for  it  cheerfully.  Now,  they  tell  us, 
our  religion  is  passing  away.  Substitute  religions 
are  springing  up,  as  well  as  dull,  dreary  creeds 
which  substitute  no  religion.  Unfaith,  they  tell 
us,  is  supplanting  faith.  Is  it  so?  Perhaps  not 
all;  but  a  part  of  it,  I  believe.  Has  something 
dropped  out  of  the  religion  of  Christ,  then?  Or 
have  we  grown  so  complex,  latterly,  that  the  sim- 
[172] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

plicity  of  Christ's  message  no  longer  fits  our  emo- 
tions? No.  Jesus  is  the  same  yesterday,  to-day, 
and  forever;  his  word  is  as  efficacious,  if  we  ac- 
cept it  sincerely.  But  do  we?  How  many  of  us 
live  our  religion?  How  many  of  us  would  even 
die  for  it?  And  how  many  would  be  dying,  not 
for  their  religion,  but  for  their  pride's  sake?  It 
is  time  for  us  to  range  ourselves.  It  is  time  for 
those  who  believe  heartily  to  show  it;  and  for 
those  who  believe  conventionally  to  confess  it 
openly  and  without  shame.  The  man  who  pro- 
fesses that  which  he  ought  to  believe,  whether  he 
believes  it  or  not,  is  almost  beyond  hope.  There 
is  far  more  chance  for  the  man  who  honestly  be- 
lieves nothing  at  all.  An  open  enemy  is  respected ; 
a  half-hearted  friend  is  despised." 

Amy  sat  wondering  in  her  pew.  Father  Clarges's 
words,  for  the  most  part,  passed  her  unheeded. 
True,  he  was  giving  voice  to  her  sentiments,  but 
words  count  for  little  with  woman,  who  would 
rather  change  her  opinions  to  agree  with  a  man 
she  likes  than  admit  that  she  agrees  with  a  man 
she  is  indifferent  to. 

Amy's  mother  had  possessed  the  admirable  qual- 
[173] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

ity  of  directness,  but  unfortunately  for  herself  she 
had  also  been  what  we  call  breezy.  Unfortunately ; 
for  breeziness  in  our  confined,  delicate  lives  re- 
sembles too  closely  a  gust  in  a  boudoir  to  be  agree- 
able. Crash !  Over  goes  the  table.  Flutter, 
scatter,  the  papers  are  whisking  out  of  the  window. 
When  Mrs.  Power  had  paid  a  visit  the  air  was 
left  a  trifle  fresher,  but  certainly,  too,  some  ideas 
were  always  left  in  disorder,  some  cherished  con- 
ventional principles  were  temporarily  overturned. 
The  principles  could  be  easily  righted,  but  no  one 
likes  to  be  constantly  readjusting  one's  mental 
furniture — though  it  is  occasionally  amusing  to 
see  such  a  necessity  overtaking  a  neighbor.  So 
Mrs.  Power  had  never  been  a  popular  woman.  She 
seemed  to  care  little  about  this,  and  went  cheerfully 
on  her  hearty  way.  Amy  was  born;  and  her 
mother,  a  little  later,  came  to  die.  Before  she 
went  away,  she  said  to  her  husband, 

"  Henry,  I  hope  the  little  girl  won't  grow  into 
such  a  tearer  as  I've  been." 

Her  husband,  who  was  a  notably  quiet  man, 
merely  closed  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"  It  does  no  good,"  she  continued,  reflectively, 
[174] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

"  to  be  always  trying  to  show  people  what  is 
right.  I  see  that  now.  Your  way  is  better,  Hen- 
ry." 

"  My  dear ! "  he  answered  her  softly.  "  My 
dear!" 

"  Yes,  much  better.  I  should  try  it  if  I  had 
another  chance.  Don't  contradict  me,  Henry 
Power;  I  know  your  way  is  better."  Saying  this, 
with  somewhat  feeble  positiveness,  she  went  to 
sleep,  and  soon  afterward  died.  As  such  a  woman 
is  generally  the  object  of  dislike,  so  her  husband 
is  usually  the  target  for  ridicule.  Probably  he 
deserves  it.  Power,  at  least,  never  seemed  to  mind. 
For  some  ten  years  he  was,  if  possible,  more  quiet 
than  before;  then  he,  too,  died,  and  bequeathed 
his  daughter,  Amy,  to  his  wife's  brother.  In  those 
ten  years  the  little  girl  had  received  the  seal  of 
silence.  Her  subsequent  association  with  her 
uncle  developed  her  inherited  straightforwardness, 
but  did  nothing  to  teach  her  expression.  Murdoch 
usually  talked  for  both  of  them.  Amy  was  at  this 
time  nineteen;  short  as  the  young  giantesses  go 
now,  when  girls  are  bred  for  bone;  brown  rather 
than  dark ;  and  quite  ignorant  of  what  she  expected 
[175] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Life  to  bring  her,  yet  anxious  at  least  to  see  it — 
a  child,  if  you  please,  on  the  night  before  Christ- 
mas. But  Amy  would  never  have  dreamed  of 
analyzing  herself  in  such  a  fashion.  Self-analysis 
was  what  she  had  no  turn  for.  She  lived  on 
quietly. 

She  went  home  from  church  and  dined  with  her 
uncle  and  his  lawyer,  Barrett  Senior.  Murdoch 
was  in  high  spirits.  Their  business  was  not  yet 
finished,  he  declared,  but  when  it  was  Amy  should 
know,  provided  she  did  not  become  too  obviously 
inquisitive ;  and  he  winked  at  Barrett  Senior.  Im- 
mediately after  dinner  the  two  retired  once  more, 
leaving  Amy  alone.  A  little  later,  however,  the 
rector  of  St.  Hilda's  dropped  in.  Over  his  robes, 
suspended  from  his  neck,  he  wore  a  gold  chain  sup- 
porting a  long  jet  cross,  on  which  was  carved  the 
figure  of  a  writhing  Christ.  As  Clarges  strolled 
across  the  room  the  outstretched  arms  lay  helplessly 
against  his  breast. 

"  Well,  Amy.     I  have  an  hour  between  services, 
you  see."     Thus  he  explained  his  coming.     She 
nodded  and  went  on  reading ;  he,  too,  picked  up  a 
book,  but  presently  he  looked  up  to  say, 
[176] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

"  What  did  you  think  of  my  sermon  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  hear  much  of  it.     I  was  thinking." 

"  It  wasn't  meant  for  you,  anyway."  He  turned 
a  page  carelessly,  and  after  a  moment  or  two  she 
resumed  her  reading.  Shortly  he  came  round  be- 
fore her  and  laid  a  hand  on  her  book.  She  looked 
up;  her  eyes  were  so  cold  that  Bradford  would 
have  shivered  to  see  them,  but  Clarges  seemed  not 
to  mind.  "  Talk  to  me,"  he  said,  abruptly.  She 
let  her  hands  clasp  above  the  book  in  her  lap,  and 
stared  at  him  serenely  and  contemplatively.  He 
gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  You  are  growing  up,  Amy.  You  are  no 
longer  my  little  girl." 

"  I  have  never  been  your  little  girl." 

The  writhing  Christ  hung  just  before  her  face 
as  he  stood  over  her.  "  Never?  " 

"  Never,  Father  Clarges.  I  have  never  liked 
you — as  I  think  you  know." 

He  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  yes ;  I  know.  You 
have  a  way  of  letting  people  know,  Amy.  But 
you  never  told  me  so  before." 

"  I  never  shall  again,  Father." 

"  What  don't  you  like  about  me  ?  "  he  urged, 
[177] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

with  a  queer  smile.  "  My  looks  ?  My  profes- 
sion ?  " 

"  Oh,  your  profession ! "  she  cried,  suddenly. 
"  I  wonder  if  you  care  a  particle  about  your  pro- 
fession ?  " 

The  writhing  Christ  on  his  breast  slowly,  im- 
perceptibly lifted,  as  he  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Why  do  you  wonder  that  ?  " 

"  See  how  you  treat  people !  You  ride  over 
them;  you  do  not  turn  aside  at  all  for  them. 
Do  you  ever  care  for  anyone  beside  yourself?  Do 
you  really  care  whether  anyone  is  ever  saved  or 
not  ?  "  The  downrightness  of  her  words  was  em- 
phasized by  their  calm ;  she  struck  hard  and  indif- 
ferently. 

"  Don't  you  know,  Amy,"  he  answered,  staring 
at  her  steadily,  "  that  there  are  only  two  classes 
of  ministers  nowadays — those  who  are  bullied  by 
their  congregations,  and  those  who  bully?  We 
must  choose  one  thing  or  the  other.  Morally,  as 
well  as  in  other  ways,  it  is  better  for  us  and  for 
them  that  we  should  bully."  His  dark  eyes  were 
narrowed;  she  was  looking  down,  not  at  him,  and 
his  lips  worked  nervously.  But  as  she  glanced  up, 
[178] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A    GIRL 

the  same  ironical,  confusing  smile  which  Bradford 
hated  quickly  resumed  its  place.  "  Profession  of 
faith,"  he  said,  harshly.  "  To  bully  or  not  to 
bully,  that  is  the  question.  I — bully." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  clearly  and  indifferently  still, 
"  you  bully." 

"  Why  do  you  choose  to-day  to  tell  me  this, 
Amy  ?  "  he  asked,  more  gently. 

"  I  thought  you  asked  me,"  she  said,  surprised. 

"  Yesterday—  he  said,  and  stopped.  She 
waited.  "  Amy,"  he  began  again,  "  I  hope  that 
in  my  bullying  you  don't  think  I'm  rude?  You 
don't  think  I  contrast  too  strongly  with — with  the 
other  young  men  whom  you  meet?  "  She  made  no 
answer. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  he  urged,  still  with  his  sardonic 
half-smile. 

"  I  think  you  are  rude — yes,"  she  said,  wearily. 
"  Why  do  you  force  me  to  say  unpleasant 
things?  " 

"  You  might  have  told  an  untruth  to  save  my 
feelings,  perhaps."  Amy  passed  this  over  in 
silence. 

Clarges  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
[179] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

out.  The  sun  was  bright  on  a  world  made  raw 
by  the  damp  Carfax  wind.  Murdoch's  house  was 
not  commensurate  with  the  size  of  his  fortune,  but 
it  stood  in  large  grounds.  At  the  side  the  bare 
syringa  bushes  bowed  and  shivered.  Late  fallen 
leaves  whipped  suddenly  across  the  lawn,  testify- 
ing to  the  carelessness  of  Murdoch's  gardener. 
Beyond,  the  edge-row  of  elms  gauntly  displayed 
their  withered  charms.  Carfax  is  seldom  beautiful 
in  November.  Suddenly  Clarges  turned,  as  if  he 
hoped  to  find  the  girl's  eyes  on  him ;  but  Amy  was 
quietly  reading. 

"  They  told  me  your  Uncle  was  busy." 

"  Yes.     Mr.  Barrett  has  been  with  him  all  day." 

"  I  must  be  going  to  my  service." 

"  Good-afternoon,  Father." 

"  You  will  not  come  with  me?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Father." 

The  rector  went  out,  pulling  his  flat,  clerical  hat 
well  down,  lest  the  wind  seize  it  from  him.  St. 
Hilda's  and  the  clergy-house  were  five  blocks  from 
Murdoch's.  He  walked  the  whole  distance  with 
his  eyes  on  the  sidewalk.  He  passed  several  of  his 
parishioners,  who  waited  for  a  word,  but  received 
[180] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

none.  One  woman  stopped  her  carriage,  and, 
having  called  to  him,  beckoned  him  to  come,  but  he 
shook  his  head  unsmilingly  and  went  on. 

"  He  is  so  odd,"  she  said  to  her  companion,  half- 
vexed.  "  But  such  a  dear !  " 

Clarges,  when  he  had  reached  his  rooms,  removed 
the  jet  Christ,  and  hung  it  carefully  upon  a  sil- 
vered nail  above  a  little  oratory.  He  went  into 
another  room,  and  stripped  the  upper  half  of  his 
body  bare.  His  chest,  beneath  the  spot  where  the 
cross  had  lain,  was  seamed  and  scarred,  as  if  it  had 
been  cut  with  knives.  He  knelt  before  the  ora- 
tory, and,  raising  his  hands  to  the  writhing  Christ, 
he  prayed  silently.  But  as  he  prayed  his  thoughts 
began  to  wander. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  thought,  "  she  watched  that 
man  as — as  she  has  never  looked  at  me.  He  cares 
for  her,  that  is  plain,  as  much  as  he  can  care  for 
anyone.  Am  I  mistaken  in  him?  Has  he  the 
honesty  to  love  her  as  she  must  be  loved?  O  God, 
God !  "  He  shivered.  "  Am  I  so  little  of  a  man 
that  while  I  am  kneeling  before  Thee  I  must  be 
abusing  in  my  thoughts  another  man — because  she 
loves  him  ?  Forgive  me,  forgive  me !  "  He  rose, 
[181] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

and  took  from  a  drawer  a  curious  instrument,  a 
strigil  with  a  square,  narrow  handle  and  dependent, 
sharp-edged  steel  fringe.  With  this,  in  utter 
silence,  he  lashed  himself  and  relashed  himself 
upon  the  old  scars  of  his  breast,  until  the  blood 
sprang  freely.  Then  in  the  next  room,  when  he 
had  sponged  the  cuts  and  laid  a  thick  cotton  cloth 
above  them,  he  resumed  his  robes.  Before  the  ora- 
tory he  knelt  once  more  a  moment;  then  with  his 
slow  step  and  his  half-smile,  the  rector  of  St. 
Hilda's  went  down  to  service. 

In  the  shadow  of  ten  million  dollars,  most  of  us, 
in  spite  of  the  mighty  fortunes  of  this  epoch,  grow 
a  trifle  awed.  Ten  millions  tower  so !  Even  Mur- 
doch, though  he  had  it  to  give,  shivered  a  little 
when  he  considered  it  directly.  But  Barrett 
Senior,  "  The  Father,"  in  Carfax  slang,  hummed 
a  tune  when  the  business  was  finished,  and  he  gath- 
ered certain  papers  together. 

"  This  will  certainly  rouse  talk,  John,"  he  said, 
in  a  slow,  old,  soft  voice,  with  a  humorous  twinkle 
in   his   blue  eyes.     His  was   a  pleasant,   innocent 
face.     "  Yes,  this  will  certainly  rouse  some  talk." 
[182] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

"  None  till  we're  ready  for  it,"  cautioned 
Murphy.  "  I  don't  want  it  to  get  out  just 
yet." 

Barrett  contemplated  him.  "  Did  you  know 
that  Harley  Schaef er  was  looking  for  a  divorce  ?  " 
he  asked.  Murdoch's  attention  was  set  upon  the 
ten  million — his  ten  million — and  the  question  did 
not  come  home  to  him  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
cried,  "  Harley  Schaef  er !  " 

"  He's  not,  you  know,"  said  Barrett,  placidly. 
"  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  he  believes  his  wife 
to  be  a  highly  estimable  woman.  But  if  he  were, 
and  if  our  firm  had  the  case,  you  would  hardly  ex- 
pect me  to  speak  of  it,  would  you?  " 

Murdoch  grinned.  "  Well,  I'm  sorry  I  hurt 
your  feelings,  Mr.  Barrett.  But  this  will  cause 
talk,  eh?" 

"Talk?  They'll  talk  like—"  But  the  inno- 
cent old  gentleman's  simile  is  best  left  to  the  imag- 
ination, as  possibly  someone  may  wish  to  send  this 
story  through  the  mails.  "  Why,  my  dear  John, 
when  Carfax  hears  about  this  money,  Carfax  will 
get  upon  its  hind  legs  and  bay  the  moon.  The 
whole  country  will." 

[183] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Murdoch,  decidedly.  "  It 
ought  to  be  a  great  ad.,  eh?  " 

"  It  will  be." 

"  The  time's  come,"  went  on  the  pickle-maker, 
firmly,  "  when  Carfax  College  has  got  to  move  up 
if  she  means  to  be  in  the  procession  at  all." 

"  You're  quite  right,  John."  His  finger-tips 
together,  the  careful  nails  the  object  of  his  con- 
templation, the  lawyer  listened  approvingly. 

"  And  she's  not  only  going  to  be  in  the  proces- 
sion, she's  going  to  head  it.  I  don't  see  any  reason 
why  Carfax  shouldn't  lead  Harvard,  or  Columbia, 
or  any  of  the  rest  of  'em.  All  it  takes  is  money, 
and  here's  the  money." 

"  Here,"  said  Barrett,  "  is  a  gob  of  it — to 
phrase  it  vulgarly." 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  much  of  it,"  said 
Murdoch,  with  a  distant  reproach  in  his  tone. 

"  Of  ten  million,  John  ?  I  think  a  lot  of  it ;  I 
think  so  much  of  it  it  makes  my  mouth  water ;  and 
therefore,  with  your  permission,  I  think  I'll  just 
have  a  cigar." 

"  Something  with  it?  " 

"  Something  with   it,   as   you  say,  John."     So 
[184] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A     GIRL 

the  lawyer  and  the  ordinary  American  citizen  who 
had  just  made  arrangements  to  give  away  ten  mill- 
ion dollars  to  Carfax  College  and  the  cause  of 
education — with  perhaps  an  incidental  eye  upon 
the  advertisement — sipped  a  little  whiskey-and- 
water  together  on  the  raw,  bright  Sunday  after- 
noon. 

"  It  strikes  me,  John,"  suggested  the  lawyer,  at 
length,  "  that  you  have  left  one  thing  out  of  con- 
sideration." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  demanded  Murdoch,  hastily. 

"  Well,  after  all,  it's  a  little  thing,  but  I  haven't 
heard  you  speak  of  it.  No ;  I'll  not  have  any  more 
whiskey,  thanks.  If  you'll  forgive  me,  John,  this 
whiskey  of  yours  reminds  me  a  little  of  some  that 
an  old  client  of  mine  gave  me  on  a  fee  once.  He 
owed  me  five  hundred  dollars,  and  he  offered  me 
twenty-five  gallons  of  rye,  which  he  said  was  twen- 
ty-five years  old.  It  was  all  he  had  in  the  world, 
so  of  course  I  took  it.  About  a  year  afterward 
my  brother-in-law  happened  to  be  visiting  me,  and 
I  thought  of  this  whiskey  and  gave  him  some.  He's 
a  great  judge  of  whiskey.  I  told  him  it  was  twen- 
ty-five years  old,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought 
[185] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

of  it.  '  Well,'  he  said,  '  Mack,  I  don't  doubt  it  is 
twenty-five  years  old,  but  I  doubt  if  it  was  any 

d n  good  in  the  first  place.'     That  discouraged 

me  a  little.  But  I  found  a  use  for  it  finally.  I 
had  a  hen-ranch  down  south  of  here  then.  I  had 
a  new  breed  of  hen;  Barred  Spanish  Rocks;  I 
never  saw  such  hens  to  lay.  They'd  lay  day  and 
night.  The  only  trouble  was,  they  got  cramps 
from  sitting  still  so  much.  So  I  used  the  whiskey 
for  liniment,  and  it  worked  like  a  charm.  Killed 
two  birds  with  one  stone,  as  you  might  say." 

Murdoch's  laughter  over  this  story  was  a  little 
uneasy.  He  thought  that  Barrett  was  merely 
gaining  time.  "  What's  the  thing  I  haven't  pro- 
vided for?  "  he  demanded. 

Barrett  ruminated.  "  The  old  Doctor,"  he  said, 
at  last. 

Murdoch's  face  clouded  in  an  instant. 

"You  think?" 

"  You'll  have  to  get  rid  of  him." 

"Why?" 

"  Bless  my  soul,  he  can  no  more  do  what  you 
want  done  than — "  Again  one  of  the  unprint- 
able similes. 

[186] 


TEN    MILLION     AND    A     GIRL 

"  I  was  thinking  the  same,"  admitted  Murdoch. 

"  How  are  you  going  to  get  rid  of  him,  if  he 
wants  to  hang  on  ?  " 

"  That's  for  the  board  to  say." 

"  Nonsense,  John.  When  you  have  given  them 
this  money,  you'll  be  the  boss;  you  know  that. 
What  you  say  will  go.  What — you — say — will — 
go,  John." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  insist  on  staying  ?  " 

"  No-o ;  I  don't  believe  he  will.  That's  why  I 
say  this  is  a  small  matter,  after  all.  But  he  won't 
be  feeling  very  pleasantly  toward  you,  John." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Murdoch  was  genuinely  puz- 
zled. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,"  chuckled  the  old  lawyer 
again.  "  Why,  bless  my  soul,  boy !  Don't  you 
see  you'll  be  putting  him  out  of  his  job?  He'll  be 
fancying  Providence  has  gone  back  on  him  about 
that  time." 

Murdoch  sighed.  "  I  suppose  you're  right," 
he  said,  sadly.  "  Well,  he'll  have  to  go,  but  I'm 
mighty  sorry  about  it.  He's  a  fine  old  man,  the 
Doctor;  not  a  thing  the  matter  with  him,  except 
that  he's  past  sixty-five." 

[187] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Barrett  coughed  affectedly.  "  Yes,  we  old  men 
have  to  go  to  the  wall,"  he  said. 

"  Can't  I  pension  him  off  some  way?  Ain't 
there  a  thing  they  call  emeritus,  or  something  of 
the  sort — an  honorary  job?"  He  pronounced  it 
with  the  accent  on  the  third  syllable — emer-i-tus; 
it  sounded  like  some  strange  disease.  The  lawyer 
nodded. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  pickle-maker,  "  we'll 
make  an  emer-i-tus  out  of  him  then."  His  face 
grew  bright  again.  "  By  the  Lord  Harry,  I'd 
give  him  five  thousand  a  year  for  grubbing  up 
his  Greek  before  I'd  hurt  his  feelings — the  old 
Doctor!  We'll  turn  him  out  to  pasture,  and 
get  some  young  fellow  to  do  the  work.  By 
the  way — how's  that  chap  I  sent  you  doing — 
Bradford?" 

"  Begins  mighty  well."  Barrett  smiled  remi- 
niscently.  "  He  put  us  on  the  trail  of  something 
big  a  while  ago — if  it  turns  out." 

"  What  was  that?  " 

The  fresh-faced  old  gentleman  winked — very 
slowly  and  very  expertly  winked. 

"  But  there's  a  good  deal  of  fireworks  about  that 
[188] 


TEN    MILLION    AND    A    GIRL 

young  Bradford,  too,"  he  continued,  irrelevantly. 
"  I  should  judge  that  he  was  a  better  starter  than 
a  stayer." 

"  If,"  returned  Murdoch,  impressively,  "  if  you 
don't  find  that  boy,  in  ten,  fifteen  years,  head  of 
your  shop — call  me  a  clam." 

"  Whatever  I  call  you,  John,"  amiably  replied 
Barrett,  "  it  will  not  be  a  clam." 

"  There  goes  a  fine  man,"  said  the  pickle-maker, 
watching  Father  Clarges  striding  down  the  walk. 
Murdoch  had  completed  a  hard  day's  work,  and 
he  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  his  reputation 
was  soon  to  be  greatly  exalted  by  it.  He  was  a 
generous  man  who  had  just  done  a  generous  deed, 
on  a  tremendous  scale.  Therefore  all  men  were 
fine  men  to  him.  Moreover,  he  rather  liked  the 
minister. 

"  Don't  know  him,"  observed  the  lawyer. 
"  Seems  to  be  some  sort  of  priest." 

"  He  is  the  rector  of  St.  Hilda's ;  Clarges  is  his 
name.  Comes  over  here  a  good  deal — to  see  Amy, 
I  guess;  I  know  it  ain't  to  curry  favor  with  me. 
By  the  Lord  Harry,  Barrett — you  like  independ- 
ent men,  you'd  like  to  see  him  stand  up  to  his  con- 
[189] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

gregation.  He  doesn't  give  a  continental  d n 

for  any  of  us." 

"  Except  the  females,  eh  ?  You  know  the 
old  saying — look  for  the  shepherd  among  the 
ewes." 

"  No ;  this  chap's  a  different  breed.  If  he  was 
like  some  ministers,  I  wouldn't  let  him  into  my 
house.  But  I've  seen  him  summer  and  winter  now, 
for  years,  and  he'll  do.  I'd  like  to  have  you  meet 
him ;  he'd  give  you  a  slap  in  the  face  of  some  sort." 
Murdoch  chuckled. 

"  Rare  bird  for  a  minister,"  observed  Barrett, 
comfortably.  "  Very — rare — bird.  I've  seen  'em 
here  and  I've  seen  'em  there,  but  I  never  saw  one 
yet  that  didn't  grin  when  he  shook  hands.  By  the 
way,  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  religious  man, 
John." 

Murdoch  smiled.  "  Nature  is  God  enough  for 
me.  But  I  like  music,  and  singing,  and  a  little 
show,  you  know;  so  I  go  to  the  Episcopalian 
church.  It's  as  good  as  a  play.  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  believe,  Mr.  Barrett;  if  a  man  keeps  a  clean 
body,  and  clean  hands,  and  likes  the  out-doors,  and 
treats  women  like  a  man  and  not  like  a  brute,  he 
[190] 


TEN    MILLION    AND     A     GIRL 

can  go  to  what  church  he  pleases,  or  to  none  at  all, 
and  yet  sleep  nights  like  a  child." 

"  Surely,  surely."  The  old  lawyer  nodded,  and 
puffed  at  his  cigar.  "  John,  these  Perfectos  are 
better  than  mine.  Where'd  you  get  'em  ?  " 


[191] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

Bradford,  that  day  after  a  lazy  Sunday  evening 
tea,  lay  on  the  couch  for  a  few  minutes  and  medi- 
tated. Then  he  asked,  "  Shedsy,  come  to  church 
with  me  to-night?  " 

"  Is  thy  servant " 

"  Come  on,  Shedsy.  It's  to  St.  Hilda's,  and 
they  have  singing,  playing,  and  dancing." 

"A  b-ballet,  quotha?     Certainly  I'll  go." 

What  drew  Bradford  to  St.  Hilda's?  One  might 
call  it  the  fascination  of  the  snake  for  the  bird. 
There  was  no  man  he  liked  less,  and  none  he 
thought  of  more,  than  the  rector  of  that  fashion- 
able congregation.  He  was  sure  that  Clarges  and 
he  were  opposed  to  each  other,  and  he  feared  that 
Clarges  had  the  superiority — at  least  he  feared 
that  Clarges  knew  something  to  his  discredit.  He 
wondered  whether  the  minister  had  read  of  his 
[192] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

speech  at  the  mass-meeting  the  night  before;  and 
what  he  thought  of  it — whether  he  fathomed  the 
motives  that  lay  behind  it.  Bradford  was  not  at 
all  certain,  as  he  tried  to  consider  the  matter  in 
cold  blood,  what  those  motives  had  been.  Brad- 
ford never  wished  to  deceive  himself,  and  he  had 
a  habit  of  questioning  himself  before  an  alter  ego 
which  generally  revealed  the  truth.  But  in  this 
case  he  was  honestly  in  doubt.  How  much  did  he 
care  for  the  ethics  of  sport?  Little,  he  might 
have  contemptuously  acknowledged  to  himself 
twenty-four  hours  previously;  but  last  night  the 
ring  in  Shedsy's  congratulations  had  waked  some 
echo  in  his  heart,  at  the  strength  of  which  he  was 
now  astonished.  The  more  he  reflected  the  surer 
he  grew  that  his  speech  had  been  the  outgrowth 
of  a  solid  conviction ;  that  Bradford  One  had  been, 
in  attributing  to  Clarges  a  justifiable  contempt  of 
his  honesty,  unjust  to  Bradford  Two.  So  reas- 
suring himself,  Bradford  grew  at  once  more  ami- 
ably inclined  to  the  minister,  though  no  less  sensi- 
tive to  his  judgment.  At  this  point  in  his  musings 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  church  and  see  the 
man  again. 

[193] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  By  the  way,  Frank,"  Shedsy  interpolated, 
"  g"giye  me  a  stamp,  will  you?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  knew  you,  Shedsy,"  said  Brad- 
ford, lazily,  "  you've  written  one  letter — just  one 
— on  Sunday,  and  borrowed  a  stamp  to  send  it. 
You'll  find  some  in  my  coat,  which  you'll  be  a  good 
fellow  and  bring  me  afterward." 

"  They're  in  a  g-good  cause,"  laughed  Barnes. 
"  It's  to  my  m-mother.  Which  pocket?  " 

"  Inside." 

"  Nothing  here  but  a  letter,"  reported  Shedsy, 
from  the  next  room.  "  It  hasn't  any  stamp, 
either.  Do  you  want  it — "  As  he  read  the 
address  on  that  letter  his  voice  died  off  suddenly, 
and  Bradford  jumped  up  and  took  a  step  toward 
the  room.  Then  he  stopped  himself. 

"  The  other  pocket,"  he  said,  with  an  effort. 
There  was  no  answer  from  Shedsy ;  but  in  a 
moment  he  came  out,  with  self-consciousness  red- 
dening his  face,  and  handed  Bradford  the  coat. 
When  they  were  on  their  way  he  said,  stumblingly, 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  p-pry>  Frank." 

"You  saw  the  letter  addressed  to — my  mother?" 

"  Yes."  He  stopped.  At  length  he  added, 
[194] 


PILGRIMS  IN  BROWN 
"  Does  she  still  seem  so  near  as — that — to  you, 
Frank?  F-forgive  me  if  I'm  clumsy,  but — of 
course,  I  remember  when  she  died,  and  all,  and  it 
brought  it  up  so  to  see  that  address,  I  c-couldn't 
help  speaking  of  it." 

"  That's  all  right.  It  was — just  a  whim  of 
mine,  one  night ;  the  night  I  came  back.  She  was 
so  near  me,  somehow,  I  thought  perhaps  she  would 
know  what  I  had  written." 

"  I  believe  she  d-did."  Shedsy  found  himself 
wondering  what  Bradford  had  written ;  he  put  the 
wonder  away  shamefacedly,  but  it  returned  again. 
Shedsy,  after  nine  years  away  from  home,  still 
wrote  dutifully,  as  Bradford  had  said,  once  a  week 
to  his  mother;  there  was  a  kind  of  heroism  in  his 
regularity,  for  there  was  a  perfunctoriness  in  it, 
too,  very  far  removed  from  the  sentiment  expressed 
in  this  letter's  address — "  To  my  Mother  in 
Heaven."  And  Shedsy  felt  very  tenderly  toward 
Frank  Bradford  in  that  moment.  For  this  reason, 
and  because  he  felt  sure  that  Bradford  was  em- 
barrassed, Shedsy  began  to  ask  him  about  the 
office. 

"How  are  you  g-getting  on?" 
[195] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  I  haven't  done  much  yet.     Still 


"What  then?" 

"  Well,  I  have  done  one  pretty  fair  bit  of  work." 

"What's  that?" 

Bradford  hesitated.  He  knew  he  had  no  busi- 
ness to  speak  of  office  cases,  but  he  had  a  double 
temptation.  He  feared  that  Shedsy  might  be 
thinking  him  foolish  and  sentimental;  and,  more 
than  that,  he  was  especially  anxious  these  days  to 
convince  himself  as  well  as  others  that  he  was  worth 
while. 

"  You're  sure  you'll  let  this  go  no  farther?  " 
Shedsy  desired  unhappy  death  if  he  did;  and  so 
Bradford  told  him.  The  case  was  that  of  which 
Barrett  had  a  few  hours  before  hinted  to  Murdoch. 

"  We  have  a  matter  up  for  action  in  which  a 
deed  is  offered  in  evidence.  We  think  the  deed 
is  forged ;  in  fact,  we  must  prove  that  it  is  forged, 
or  false  in  some  way.  There's  a  big  lot  of  money 
involved — half  a  million,  in  fact." 

Shedsy  opened  his  eyes.  "  It's  the  Barton 
case ! " 

"  Yes.  But  you  needn't  advertise  it.  Well,  as 
I  was  saying,  the  question  is,  did  Mrs.  Barton  sign 
[196] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

this  deed?  She's  dead  now,  and  so  can't  testify. 
But  the  notary  whose  name  is  signed  to  the  ac- 
knowledgment is  alive,  and  ready  to  swear  himself 
blue  in  the  face  that  she  signed  as  the  instrument 
purports." 

"  Haven't  you  called  in  h-handwriting  ex- 
perts?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Our  men  swear  that  she  probably 
didn't  sign  it;  their  men  swear  she  probably  did. 
For  a  cautious  but  diplomatic  liar,  give  me  a 
handwriting  expert.  Now  what  are  we  to  do?  " 

"  That's  very  s-simple,"  replied  Shedsy.  "  Imi- 
tate the  c-cat  again,  and  climb  a  t-tree." 

Bradford  laughed.  Shedsy's  confession  was 
wine  to  him.  "  The  firm  was  looking  for  a  tree, 
I  think,  when  I  made  a  suggestion." 

"What?" 

"  Swear  you'll  never  peep  ?  " 

"  On  honor." 

"  One  day,  when  I  was  looking  at  a  deed-form, 
I  happened  to  notice  that  not  all  the  letters  were 
printed  clean.  A  capital  T  had  a  flat  top,  and  a 
little  s  was  minus  a  tail;  and  so  on.  It  occurred 
to  me  right  away  that  I  had  hit  upon  a  method 
[197] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

of  identifying  a  deed,  after  a  fashion.  You  know 
the  firms  which  manufacture  them  run  them  off  in 
big  lots,  and  then  distribute  the  type.  Of  course, 
the  next  form  will  have  defects  of  its  own  in  the 
printing,  but  the  defects  will  be  in  different  letters. 
The  casual  reader  will  say  that  the  lot  which  were 
run  off  in  April  were  exactly  like  those  in  March, 
but  he  will  be  wrong — there  will  be  little  differ- 
ences. Well,  then,  in  thinking  that  over,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  if  we  could  find  out  just  what  lot  the 
particular  deed-form  we  were  interested  in  was 
part  of,  we  might  prove  something.  The  deed 
was  dated  January,  1885.  Mrs.  Barton  died  in 
May  of  1886.  Suppose  we  could  show  conclu- 
sively, by  this  scheme  of  mine,  that  the  particular 
set  of  forms  of  which  this  form  was  a  part  had 
been  run  off  in  January  of  1889,  say?  Obviously 
we  should  prove  that  Mrs.  Barton's  pretended  sig- 
nature was  a  forgery;  she  couldn't  very  well  sign, 
in  1885,  on  a  form  which  wasn't  printed  till  four 
years  later.  That  was  what  I  suggested  to  Mr. 
Barrett." 

"  So  you've  got  the  case  won ! "  said  Shedsy  of 
the  simple  mind. 

[198] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

"  Not  exactly !  We've  still  got  to  find  out  just 
what  lot  this  deed- form  was  a  part  of,  and  to  make 
sure  it  was  issued  after  the  pretended  date  of  Mrs. 
Barton's  signature,  or  we're  no  forrarder  than  be- 
fore. But  the  firm  has  all  kinds  of  men  working 
now  along  just  those  lines.  Of  course,  the  forgers 
had  been  crafty  enough  to  cut  the  name  of  the 
firm  who  printed  the  form  off  the  bottom,  so  it 
wasn't  as  simple  as  you'd  think.  Besides,  we 
couldn't  go  round  asking  openly,  or  the  other  side 
would  find  out  our  game  and  work  up  some  scheme 
to  block  it.  But  the  old  man — Barrett — discov- 
ered that  one  phrase  in  the  Barton  deed-form  was 
always  used  in  the  forms  of  a  certain  firm,  and 
very  seldom  by  any  other,  and  that  helped  us.  So 
we're  getting  on." 

"  I  c-comprehend.  And  you're  in  this  still 
hunt  for  the  d-deed,  of  course?" 

"  Oh,  that's  hackwork,  Shedsy.  They've  put 
clerks  on  that." 

"  Still,  I  should  think  you'd  b-be  so  interested, 
you'd  want  to  be  in  at  the  d-death." 

"  Now  don't  you  mention  this,  even  to  the  fel- 
lows." 

[199] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  I  won't,  of  c-course." 

Even-song  at  St.  Hilda's  was  not  conducted  by 
Clarges  himself,  but  by  a  curate.  So  Bradford 
was  disappointed  in  his  wish  to  see  the  rector. 
But  he  gladly  gave  himself  up  to  the  sensuous  en- 
joyment of  candle-flare  and  rolling  music.  He 
could  always  think  better  when  music  was  in  his 
ears;  though  it  was  not,  after  all,  thinking  that 
came  to  him  at  such  times,  rather  a  series  of  pict- 
ures in  which  he  was  always  the  central  figure,  and 
of  which  at  the  same  time  he  yet  stood  by  observ- 
ant. He  shut  his  eyes,  determined  not  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  uprisings  and  downsittings ;  and  Shedsy, 
after  a  vain  attempt  to  follow  the  motions  of  the 
other  worshippers,  gave  it  all  up  as  a  bad  job,  and 
imitated  Bradford.  The  service  was  very  new  to 
Shedsy ;  in  the  twenty-five  years  of  his  life  he  had 
never  before  penetrated  to  the  interior  of  an  Epis- 
copalian church,  and  he  was  constantly  and  freshly 
amused.  But  Bradford  refused  to  respond  to  his 
requests  for  information,  and  at  length  Shedsy 
grew  interested  in  a  particular  choir-boy,  who  was 
tickling  another  with  a  feather  in  the  pauses  of 
seraphic  singing,  and  left  Bradford  to  himself. 
[200] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

What  did  Bradford  see?  A  broad,  dark-green 
floor  of  sea,  which  ran  out  to  the  edge  of  the  world 
and  ended  abruptly  in  a  red  circle  of  sun.  Black 
against  the  red,  a  boat  drifted.  Bradford  held 
one  hand  upon  the  idle  tiller,  and  with  the  other 
clasped  the  hand  of  a  girl ;  she  had  gray  eyes.  A 
black-barred  gate  opened  into  the  sun,  and  they 
drifted  through.  It  swung  to  behind  them;  they 
were  alone. 

He  saw  a  great  square  house  at  night.  Beside 
its  door  were  narrow  panes  of  glass,  flushed  scarlet 
by  a  light  behind — such  glass,  he  remembered,  had 
been  in  their  old  hallway  at  home.  The  door 
opened,  and  from  innumerable  lights  within  a  gush 
of  radiance  sprang  out,  so  strong  that  the  grass 
beside  the  path  was  green  as  in  the  daytime,  and 
black  columnar  trees  leaped  into  view  all  round 
him.  He  walked  down  the  path,  among  the  trees, 
and  with  him  this  girl  with  gray  eyes.  The  door 
closed  in  the  lights,  and  once  more  they  were  alone. 

He  saw  an  interminable  procession,  two  by  two, 

in    dusty,    yellowish-brown    clothes,    a    procession 

which  crawled  on  a  winding  yellow  road  through 

flat   brown    land.     The   sun    above   beat    straight 

[201] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

down  upon  them  all.  A  nasty  wind  spat  whorls 
of  dust.  Bradford  walked  at  the  head  of  this  pro- 
cession; the  minister  walked  with  him.  They 
turned  their  bodies  slowly,  as  men  do  in  the  ex- 
treme of  weariness,  and  saw  beside  them  a  girl  with 
gray  eyes  in  which  the  weariness  was  as  great  as  in 
their  own.  Bradford  would  have  gone  to  her,  but 
a  river  ran  between  them  somehow,  and  when  he 
would  have  plunged  in  she  waved  him  away. 
She  faded  slowly  out  of  his  longing  sight;  and 
Clarges  opened  his  lips  in  a  sneer.  "  Is  she  for 
you,  then?  "  cried  Bradford,  fiercely. 

He  was  not  aware  that  he  had  spoken  aloud,  but 
Shedsy  gripped  his  arm.  "  Wake  up,  Frank ! 
Don't  be  talking  in  meeting ! "  Bradford  ob- 
served heads  turning  his  way,  and  huddled  abashed 
in  his  corner.  When  the  service  was  over  they 
hurried  out.  At  the  door  Bradford  started.  His 
memory  had  not  played  him  false,  for  here  was  the 
very  face  he  had  seen  in  that  final  vision.  Clarges 
bowed;  then,  seeming  to  alter  his  mind,  advanced 
toward  them  and  shook  hands  with  Bradford. 
Shedsy  stared  at  him  furtively. 

"  Father  Clarges,  let  me  present  my  friend,  Mr. 
[202] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

Barnes."  Mr.  Barnes  also  shook  hands  with  be- 
coming gravity,  but  the  vestments  were  plainly 
heavy  on  his  mind. 

"  Doing  anything  in  particular?  Glad  to  have 
you  both  come  up  to  my  rooms  a  while,"  said 
Clarges,  abruptly. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  can't  do  that,"  began  Bradford, 
but  Shedsy  interrupted.  "  If  you're  thinking  of 
me,  Frank,  I  can  wait  p-perfectly  well,"  he  said, 
innocently,  and  Bradford  could  only  follow  the 
rector  up  the  stairs. 

"  I  hated  to  go  back  on  you,"  explained  Shedsy, 
afterward,  "  but  I've  never  had  a  chance  to  see 
that  sort  of  animal  in  his  den  before,  and  I 
c-couldn't  pass  it." 

"What  a  frabjous  c-cave!"  was  his  admiring 
remark  when  they  had  reached  the  rector's  rooms. 
"  Did  you  see  the  p-pipe-rack  ?  "  he  demanded  of 
Bradford  afterward,  "  and  that  little  lady-bull 
pipe  with  amber  and  s-slab-gold  m-mounting? 
When  I  saw  that  p-pipe  I  wished  I  was  a  minister ; 
yes,  sir,  I'd  be  willing  to  wear  w-worse  aprons  than 
he  wore  to  g-get  it.  And  did  you  see  that  gold 
chain  h-hanging  over  the  hole  in  the  wall  with  an 
[203] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

image  in  it?  He's  g-got  so  many,  likely,  he 
h-hasn't  room  to  put  them  all  away.  And  did 
you  see  the  c-curtains?  And  the  rugs?  C-call 
me  a  Hebrew  pedler  if  one  w-wasn't  Daghestan. 
And  the  b-books,  books — yes,  sir,  a  r-rector's  life 
is  the  life  for  m-me,  a  home  by  the  p-parish 
church !  " 

Bradford  and  Clarges  talked,  but  Bradford 
talked  very  badly,  and  felt  cheap  and  dull.  He 
was  like  an  actor  at  rehearsal,  where  nobody  is 
present  but  the  disillusioned  stage-manager.  Brad- 
ford could  never  do  his  best  unless  he  had  his 
audience.  Clarges,  however,  was  wonderfully  po- 
lite and  tactful.  And  one  matter  of  the  interview 
must  be  chronicled — the  conversion  of  Shedsy 
Barnes  to  Episcopalianism.  Shedsy  made  no 
secret  that  he  went  up  to  the  rector's  rooms  pos- 
sessed of  the  idea  that  the  man  was  a  curiosity ;  at 
the  very  least,  a  foreigner  of  some  sort ;  at  the  worst, 
a  Jesuit.  Shedsy  had  never  beheld  a  Jesuit  with 
his  naked  eye,  but  he  was  well  aware  that  they 
had  horns  and  a  tail,  and  occupied  themselves  in 
whispering  dark  plots.  But  he  left  Clarges's 
rooms  satisfied  that  this  man,  though  he  chose  to 
[204] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

dress  like  an  ass  (the  phraseology  is  that  of  Mr. 
Barnes),  was  nevertheless  an  American  gentleman. 
For  it  happened  that  Clarges  mentioned  football, 
and  spoke  of  it,  not  tentatively  as  women  do,  but 
with  apparent  authority.  He  could  even  compare 
certain  teams  with  others.  In  so  doing  he  and 
Shedsy  found  themselves  at  variance. 

"  I  dislike  to  contradict,  Mr. — I  mean  F-Father 
C-Clarges,"  said  Shedsy,  "  but  I'm  p-perfectly 
sure  that  no  team  has  ever  beaten  that  p-particular 
university  two  years  in  succession." 

"Certain  of  it?" 

"  M-might'  nigh." 

"  Yet  we  beat  them  in  '88,  and  again  in  '89," 
the  rector  insisted.  "  I  ought  to  know,  Mr. 
Barnes ;  I  played  in  both  games." 

"  You  p-played  in  both  g-games?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  sun  rose  in  Shedsy's  face.  "  L-look  here ! 
You're  not  C-Clarges  of  Yale  '89?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  by  Jove!"  cried  Shedsy.  "Well,  by 
Jove !  "  He  looked  the  rector  carefully  up  and 
down.  "  I  see  now ;  I  see  now.  I  b-beg  your  par- 
[205] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

don,  s-sir."  Shedsy  dropped  out  of  the  conversa- 
tion, but  ^ever  and  anon  his  eyes  remeasured  the 
rector,  and  his  lips  murmured  again  in  admiration 
and  enjoyment,  "  C-Clarges  of  '89!"  There  was 
no  doubt  of  it;  Shedsy  was  converted  to  Episco- 
palianism.  But  Bradford  could  not  rid  himself  of 
the  idea  that  the  rector  was  weighing  him,  estimat- 
ing him,  luring  him  on  to  commit  himself  to  some 
stupidity ;  and  he  was  cautious  and  flippant  by 
turns,  till  Shedsy  looked  a  little  surprised. 

When  the  two  had  gone  Clarges  sat  for  some 
time  looking  at  the  cross  above  his  little  shrine. 
Then  he  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  I  wish  it  might  have  been  the  other  one,  even," 
he  muttered.  "  Boy  as  he  is,  I  wish  it  had  been 
the  other  one.  And  yet — isn't  it  possible  that  I'm 
mistaken,  even  now?  " 

Whatever  it  was  which  had  led  Clarges  to  ask 
Bradford  to  his  rooms  continued  its  influence 
throughout  the  winter.  Bradford  came  again, 
always  against  his  will  and  his  judgment,  and  yet 
inevitably.  And  the  minister  went  to  the  Resi- 
duum. Kate  was  like  Shedsy;  Clarges  the  rector 
might  be  looked  upon  with  suspicion,  but  Clarges 
[206] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

of  '89  was  welcome  wherever  they  had  a  voice.  He 
appeared    not    infrequently,    though   irregularly; 
sometimes,  after  weeks  of  absence,  he  would  turn 
up  unexpectedly,  and  smoke  for  an  hour  without 
saying  a  word.     That  appealed  to  Slim;  Slim  set 
before  kings  a  man  who  could  do  that.     The  boys 
all  liked  Clarges.     But  Bradford  was  known  to  be 
his  especial  friend.     Often  they  sat  up  late,  when 
the  others   had   slipped   away   to  bed.     Bradford 
was  bound  by  his  curious  fascination ;  Clarges  by 
what    spirit?     That    last    was    a    question    which 
Bradford  asked  himself  over  and  over.     What  did 
the  man  mean  by  offering  his  friendship  in  this 
fashion?     What    end    was    he   seeking?     Was   he 
searching  for  evidence  that  should  prove  Bradford 
unworthy?     And  if  he  found  it,  how  did  he  mean 
to  use   it?     Bradford,  with  a  daring  which  sur- 
prised himself,  though  it  was  only  the  bravado  of 
any  man  who  fancies  himself  discovered  in  some- 
thing he  is  ashamed  of,  used  to  talk  to  Clarges 
sometimes   about    sentiment,    and   diplomacy,   and 
various  kindred  subjects  which  relate  more  or  less 
directly  to  the  great  topic  of  sincerity. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing,"  he  said,   one  night, 
[207] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  as  the  prostitution  of  tact ;  but  after  all  I  fancy 
most  people  would  prefer  a  lie  to  rudeness.  I  am 
certain  that  women  do." 

"  Some  women,"  corrected  Clarges.  Brad- 
ford thought  of  Amy,  and  wondered  if  Clarges 
were  not  thinking  of  her,  too.  He  laughed  de- 
fiantly. 

"  Most  women.  What  sort  of  a  monstrosity 
would  a  straightforward  courtship  be — in  which  a 
man  told  the  woman  of  his  choice  just  what  he 
was  thinking  of  her?  *  You  are  not  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world;  you  are  not  even 
the  most  beautiful  in  this  block.  Amanda  Brown, 
round  the  corner,  has  larger,  more  dove-like  eyes; 
Susanna  Jones,  across  the  street,  has  a  more 
charming  complexion.  It  is  true  that  I  love  you 
more  than  I  do  any  other ;  but  I  know  several  who 
are  cleverer  than  you.  I  want  you  for  my  wife, 
because  I  am  tired  of  living  alone;  clubs  are 
inadequate,  and  a  man  cannot  manage  a  house- 
keeper.' How  great  success  would  such  a  wooer 
achieve?  " 

"  What  do  you  argue  from  that  ?  " 

"  That  a  man  must  conceal  his  sentiments,  and 
[208] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

suit  his  emotions  to  the  occasion.  Nowadays  one 
who  exhibits  his  real  self  is  considered  by  men 
uncouth,  and  by  women  brutal." 

"  I  saw  a  man  last  week,"  said  Clarges,  irrele- 
vantly, "  who  is  supporting  the  only  surviving 
member  of  his  family — a  brother,  who  is  helpless 
and  almost  insane  from  his  own  excesses.  He  re- 
tains two  feelings;  one,  a  hatred  of  institutions; 
the  other,  a  hatred  of  this  man  I  am  speaking  of, 
who  supports  him.  He  will  not  speak  to  him;  he 
not  infrequently  spits  at  him.  Yet  my  man,  who 
is  a  clerk  in  a  small  way,  works  his  fingers  to  the 
bone  to  keep  his  brother  comfortable.  I  happen 
to  know  him  well;  and  I  happen  to  know  that  he 
gave  up  all  thought  of  marriage,  though  the  girl 
would  have  taken  him  even  with  his  encumbrance. 
He  told  her  bluntly  that  he  would  neither  leave 
his  brother  nor  subject  any  woman  to  constant  as- 
sociation with  such  a  beast.  He  never  complains; 
but  he  knows  me,  as  I  say,  and  when  I  asked  him 
last  week  how  matters  were  going  he  only  said, 
'  The  doctor  says  that  with  fair  luck  I  ought  to  see 
the  last  of  Jim  in  about  ten  months  or  so.'  *  What 
do  you  think  ?  '  I  asked  him,  and  he  shook  his  head. 
[209] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

'  God  knows ;  I  ain't  as  sanguine  as  the  doctor ;  I 
know  Jim's  cussedness.'  What  would  you  have 
advised  him,  Bradford — to  back  up  the  heroism  of 
his  acts  by  a  suitable  phraseology  ?  " 

"  What  became  of  the  girl  he  was  to  marry  ?  " 

Clarges  smiled  his  dark  little  smile.  "  Why, 
for  some  reason,  she  made  up  her  mind  he  was 
worth  having;  and  she's  waiting  for  him,"  he 
answered. 

"  And  when  she  gets  him — when  the  encum- 
brance is  dropped,"  said  Bradford,  ironically, 
"  will  she  be  any  the  happier  for  owning  a  husband 
who  eats  the  burnt  chops,  and  damns  her  bad  cook- 
ing at  the  same  time?  I  don't  believe  she  will.  I 
think  she  will  regret  that  her  lot  is  not  cast  with 
a  man  who  would  praise  them,  and  diplomat- 
ically give  them  to  the  dog  when  her  back  was 
turned." 

"  But  suppose  that  afterward  she  discovered  the 
dog  bolting  them?"  asked  Clarges.  Bradford 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Talking  in  parables  is 
dull  work,"  he  said,  "  but  the  man  would  be  duller 
who  let  himself  be  discovered."  He  looked  Clarges 
momentarily  in  the  eye,  then  turned  to  poke  up  the 
[210] 


PILGRIMS    IN    BROWN 

soft-coal  fire  which  was  the  glory  of  the  Resid- 
uum. 

"  I'm  off,"  said  the  rector. 

"  Lord  love  you,  listen  to  the  storm !  Surely 
you'll  stay  the  night,  old  man  ?  "  One  of  the  Jan- 
uary blizzards  had  shut  down  on  Carfax.  The 
sleet  was  howling  like  wolves  across  the  river  in 
unending  lines;  the  icy  cottonwoods  were  swaying 
to  the  ground,  and  it  was  very  cold.  But  the  rec- 
tor shook  his  head.  Bradford  insisted,  but  his 
will  was  no  match  for  that  of  Clarges  of  '89.  He 
was  used  to  walking  on  bad  nights,  he  said;  and 
he  ploughed  out  into  the  drifted  city.  When  he 
reached  his  room  he  was  exhausted,  powerful  man 
though  he  was.  He  undressed  at  once.  The 
cloth  upon  his  breast  was  stuck  to  his  body  with 
dried  blood.  He  tore  at  it  fiercely,  but  it  would 
not  loosen,  so  he  let  it  remain.  He  dropped  on 
his  knees  before  his  little  shrine,  and  prayed — 
prayed  as  fiercely  as  he  had  striven  with  the  wind, 
or  as  he  had  tortured  himself  that  day.  "  Keep 
this  tragedy  from  coming  into  her  life,  O  God !  " 
he  cried.  "  I  ask  nothing  for  myself ;  I  swear  it 
before  your  throne!  Do  to  me  as  you  will,  but 


THE     CHAMELEON 

keep  her  from  this  sorrow !  "  His  voice  died  away, 
while  the  screams  of  the  wind  continued  up  and 
down  the  street,  and  round  the  gargoyled  cornices 
of  St.  Hilda's.  The  morning  found  the  rector 
still  before  his  shrine. 


[212] 


Chapter  Eleven 

TROUBLE  COMES  TO  SHEDSY 

That  winter,  Shedsy  Barnes  lost  no  opportunity  of 
declaring,  was  the  finest  of  his  life. 

"  C-college,"  said  he  one  evening,  philosophi- 
cally, "  is  ideal,  except  that  n-nobody  works.  You 
have  a  1-lovely  time,  but  there's  no  contrast  to  it. 
Now  you  have  the  atmosphere  just  the  s-same,  and 
you  come  back  to  it  every  night  from  the  st-storm 
and  st-stress  of  the  world,  just  t-tired  enough  to 
know  how  h-heavenly  it  all  is." 

"  You're  lucky  to  be  out  of  college,  if  you  fancy 
the  old  way  is  ideal,"  Kate  contributed,  cynically. 
"  We're  going  to  have  a  regeneration,  they  say, 
and  the  modern  laboratory  method  of  education. 
The  Alma  Mater  idea  is  about  played  out ;  we're  to 
be  fed  from  a  bottle,  hygienically  and  econom- 
ically, now." 

"  They've  been  telling  you  yarns,  K-Kitty, 
[213] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

dear,"  soothed  Shedsy.  "  Carfax  isn't  to  be 
changed.  The  r-revolutionary  pickle-maker  has 
kept  his  hands  in  his  p-pockets,  after  all." 

"  It's  a  pity  if  he  does,"  broke  in  Bradford. 
"  Oh,  I  know,  Kate ;  you  think  all  that  Dr.  Craven 
does  is  right,  and  I  don't  blame  you.  But  you 
know  very  well  we're  behind  the  times  here. 
There's  no  place  in  the  West  for  a  college  of  Car- 
fax's sort;  a  man  who  wants  that  sort  of  thing,  a 
man  who  can  afford  to  loaf  along  four  agreeable 
years,  will  go  east  to  Amherst  or  Williams,  where 
they  loaf  genteelly  and  in  some  style.  It's  the  or- 
dinary man  in  money-matters,  the  man  who  wants 
an  education  at  all  hazards,  that  the  western  col- 
lege must  cater  to,  if  it  is  really  doing  its  duty. 
It  is  bound  to  furnish  him  the  best  in  the  market, 
at  a  price  within  his  reach.  It's  all  very  well  to 
talk  about  the  passing  of  romance,  and  the  death 
of  Alma  Mater;  but  the  true  object  of  an  educa- 
tional centre  is  to  forward  the  progress  of  thought 
by  all  means  in  its  power,  not  to  furnish  athletic 
amusement  with  a  dash  of  sentiment  and  a  tincture 
of  book-learning  to  a  lazy  lot  of  male  children." 

"  So  you  think  that's  Dr.  Craven's  ideal?" 


TROUBLE  COMES  TO  SHEDSY 

"  Don't  get  huffy,  my  Kate.  I  think  Dr.  Craven 
is  one  of  the  finest  old  gentlemen  living.  But — 
without  the  slightest  disrespect  to  him — every  dog 
has  his  day,  you  know." 

"  And  now  that  he  has  given  the  best  of  his  life 
to  Carfax  College,  you  would  say  to  him — *  Your 
time's  come ;  get  out ! '  Is  that  your  idea,  Frank?  " 

"  Does  it  sound  brutal?  And  yet  you've  just 
said  the  word,  Kate ;  he's  given  the  best  of  his  life 
to  his  work.  Presently  another  man  will  be  called, 
who  must  give  the  best  of  his  life,  and  so  on ;  that's 
the  way  the  world  manages  to  progress  at  all,  isn't 
it?  " 

"  Is  that  the  world  ?  Then  I'm  sorry  I'm  in  it ; 
it  sounds  more  like  the  car  of  Juggernaut  to  me." 
Kate,  after  a  moment,  rose  and  went  out. 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  p-put  it  so  strong, 
F-Frank,"  said  Shedsy,  soberly.  "  Of  course, 
you've  g-got  all  the  reason  on  your  side;  b-but 
for  some  cause  or  other,  K-Kate  feels  pretty  fierce 
about  this,  and  your  having  the  r-reason  makes  it 
all  the  worse." 

"  Oh,  you're  right,  of  course.  But  somehow,  I 
seem  to  be  in  a  nasty  mood  this  winter.  Shedsy  ?  " 
[215] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Shedsy  was  filling  a  pipe  carefully.  "  What  is 
it?" 

"  Haven't  you  ever  been  in  love  ?  " 

The  tobacco  spilled  over  the  edge  of  the  pipe, 
but  Shedsy  answered  lightly,  "  Never ;  but  I  got 
drunk  once,  to  see  what  it  was  like." 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was  in 
love?  " 

"  Hope  for  the  b-best,  I  reckon." 

"  There's  only  one  best,  and  that's  out  of  my 
reach." 

Very  slowly,  very  mechanically,  Shedsy  rammed 
the  tobacco  into  the  bowl  with  his  thumb.  Once 
more  he  saw  the  futility  of  his  opposition  to  the 
laws  of  nature;  once  more  he  saw  this  cherished 
Residuum  of  his  crashing  about  his  ears ;  once  more 
he  listened  to  the  rustle  of  skirts,  as  Eve  entered, 
Eve  the  eternal,  dragging  the  serpent.  Was  there 
no  touch  of  the  sublime  in  the  answer  Shedsy  made  ? 

"  Want  to  t-tell  me  all  about  it,  F-Frank?  " 

"  You've  seen  her,"  answered  Bradford,  accept- 
ing the  invitation  with  the  eager,  careless  selfish- 
ness of  a  man  in  love.  "  Her  name  is  Amy 
Power." 

[216] 


TROUBLE  COMES  TO  SHEDSY 

"  The  girl  you  m-met  on  your  way  b-back  last 
fall  ?  "  questioned  Shedsy,  carefully. 

"  Yes." 

"  And?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  think  she  cares  a  little,  Shedsy ; 
mostly  I  don't  dare  believe  she  does.  I  haven't 
dared  to  say  anything  to  her,  yet;  but  she  must 
know ;  don't  you  think  she  must  know  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  d-don't  know  much  about  it,  old 
boy." 

"  Yes ;  but  when  I'm  hinting  at  it  all  the  time  ? 
When  I  go  'round  there  as  much  as  I  do?  She 
can't  think  I  come  to  see  her  uncle,  can  she?  He 
calls  me  by  my  first  name,  now.  Do  you  think 
that's  a  good  sign,  Shedsy  ?  " 

"  You  aren't  c-courting  the  old  man,  are  you, 
Frank?" 

"  Don't  be  funny,  Shedsy.  You're  a  cold- 
blooded little  brute;  you  don't  know  what  this 
means  to  me.  Didn't  you  see  her  at  the  football 
game?  Don't  you  remember  what  she  looked 
like?  Why,  Shedsy,  I  haven't  been  like  half  the 
men  I  know,  making  love  to  every  nice  girl  I've 
seen;  there's  no  girl  living  can  say  honestly  that 
[217] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

I've  made  love  to  her  seriously.  That  makes  this 
all  the  worse ;  that's  what  makes  me  so  sure  about 
myself  this  time.  Every  time  I'm  with  her,  I  re- 
alize what  a  cheap,  worthless  sort  of  chap  I  am — 
how  worthless  we  all  are,  compared  to  a  girl  like 
her.  I  never  felt  that  way,  before.  Do  you  ever 
feel  that  way  with  girls,  Shedsy  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  b-before,  Frank ;  I  always  c-climb 
a  tree." 

"  I'm  not  joking,  Shedsy." 

"  I  know,  F-Frank ;  I  know.  Only — this  has 
come  a  little  s-sudden,  you  see;  I  hadn't  been 
g-guessing  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  anybody  could  see  it !  Why, 
what  do  you  think  brings  that  man  Clarges  'round 
here?  " 

"  C-Clarges ! " 

"  Yes,  Clarges.  He's  in  it,  too ;  sometimes  I 
think  he  has  the  inside  track.  He  doesn't  care  a 
hang  about  me,  or  any  of  the  rest  of  you  either ; 
he  only  comes  to  keep  an  eye  on  me,  to  see  how 
I'm  getting  on.  I  go  and  see  him  for  the  same 
reason."  Bradford  smiled  forlornly. 

"  C-Clarges!     Now  you  are  joking,  F-Frank." 
[218] 


TROUBLE  COMES  TO  SHEDSY 

"  No,  I'm  not.  I've  seen  them  together ;  a  man 
in  my  position  can't  be  fooled.  I  know  what  he 
thinks  about  her,  but  I  don't  know  what  she  thinks 
about  him.  You  haven't  told  me  what  you  thought 
of  her  when  you  saw  her,  Shedsy?"  Bradford 
hung  on  the  answer  jealously. 

Shedsy  braced  himself  unseen.  "  I  thought  she 
was  a  w-winner,  Frank." 

Bradford  nodded.  The  spell  of  confession 
seemed  to  be  lifted.  He  sighed,  and  soon  he  fol- 
lowed Kate's  example  and  left  the  room.  Shedsy, 
lying  on  the  couch,  heard  him  putting  on  his  over- 
coat and  gloves;  presently  the  door  slammed; 
Bradford  was  gone.  Shedsy  turned  over  and  laid 
his  face  upon  his  arms. 

The  slam  of  the  door  roused  Kate,  who  issued 
forth  from  the  room  where  he  had  been  studying, 
and  came  in,  a  green-paper  shade  on  his  brow,  a 
book  pinched  between  his  fingers.  He  shook 
Shedsy  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Here,  old  boy,  don't  go  to  sleep  in  here ;  go  to 
bed  like  a  Christian." 

"Shut  up,  will  you?" 

"What's  the  matter,  Shedsy?" 
[219] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

The  boy  sat  up  defiantly,  and  brushed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes.  "  N-nothing." 

Kate  eyed  him  keenly.  "  Did  Frank  go 
out?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Has  he  been  trying  to  row  with  you  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  t-take  me  for?  " 

"  Then  what's  the  trouble,  Shedsy?  " 

"  I'm  1-lonely !  "  cried  Shedsy,  suddenly  and  with 
passion.  "  I'm  lonely,  if  you've  g-got  to  know, 
and  be  d-damned  to  you!  No,  we  didn't  row;  he 
told  me  his  troubles,  and  of  course  they  were  about 
a  g-girl !  Another  friend  g-gone,  or  going ;  that's 
all.  G-God !  I  used  to  think,  when  I  was  a  boy 
in  college,  that  the  f-friends  I'd  make  there  would 
be  my  friends  all  our  Hives.  I  thought  we'd  g-go 
on  together,  and  g-grow  old  together,  and  sort  of 
f-find  out  what  life  m-meant.  What  did  I  know 
about  it?  Roge  is  g-gone;  Champ's  g-gone;  I 
never  see  them  any  more.  I  g-got  you  fellows 
into  this  R-Residuum  scheme,  and  in  four  months 
Frank  c-comes  and  tells  me,  as  if  I  ought  to  s-sym- 
pathize  with  him,  that  he  wants  to  go  t-too.  He's 
not  the  only  one,  I  suppose;  you'll  go,  and  Slim; 
[220] 


TROUBLE  COMES  TO  SHEDSY 

and  I'll  plug  along,  and  t-try  to  make  some  other 
f-friends,  if  I  c-can.  But  I  c-can't;  nobody  can 
be  to  me  what  you  f-fellows  are;  the  men  are  all 
too  busy  fighting  each  other,  and  c-competing  with 
each  other  down  there  " — Shedsy  pointed  toward 
Carfax — "  to  get  close  to  each  other,  as  we  have. 
I  t-try  not  to  be  mean ;  I  try  to  realize  that  it  all 
m-multiplies  the  fellows'  h-happiness,  and  only 
subtracts  from  m-mine;  but  it  gets  d-damned  hard 
sometimes.  What  is  it  that's  left  out  of  m-me? 
I  can  love  the  fellows;  why  is  it  I  d-don't  want 
these  experiences  that  c-come  to  them  all,  and 
seem  to  drive  out  everything  that's  gone  b-before, 
so  that  they  h-haven't  any  room  left  in  their  hearts 
for  their  friends?  I  c-can't  talk  their  language; 
I  c-can't  really  s-sympathize  with  them ;  the  women 
they  care  so  much  about  d-don't  like  me,  and  th- 
there  you  are !  " 

"  Poor  old  Shedsy !  "  said  Kate,  softly. 

"  Yes,  pity  me ! "  answered  Shedsy,  bitterly. 
"  That's  about  all  I'm  d-due  for  in  life,  I  guess — 
a  little  p-pity !  " 

Kate  sat  down  by  him,  moving  the  boy's  legs 
to  make  room.  "  Shedsy,"  he  said,  "  don't  you 
[221  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

think  you  do  your  old  friends  an  injustice?  "    But 
Shedsy  shook  his  head. 

"  You  don't  know !  "  he  answered,  mournfully. 
"  You  d-don't  know.  As  like  as  not,  you're 
p-planning  to  leave  me  yourself — only  you  haven't 
t-told  me  yet."  And  he  turned  once  more,  and 
laid  his  face  on  his  arm.  Perhaps  it  was  fortu- 
nate; it  prevented  him  from  seeing  Kate's  face. 
After  that  evening  Shedsy  was  himself  again ;  but 
he  ceased  declaring  that  this  was  the  finest  winter 
of  his  life,  and  there  was  something  a  little  furtive 
in  the  occasional  glance  which  he  bestowed  on 
Clarges,  during  the  rector's  visits  to  the  flat  of 
the  Residuum. 


Chapter  Twelve 

AMY  IS    WARNED 

When  Bradford  received  a  formal  invitation  to 
dinner  at  the  Murdoch's  he  was  a  trifle  surprised, 
and  he  immediately  began  to  wonder  about  the 
other  guests.  He  was  of  course  not  at  all  aston- 
ished to  find  Dr.  Craven,  with  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter; nor  did  the  presence  of  Clarges  and  Barrett 
mystify  him  in  the  least.  The  pickle-maker  was 
not  a  step  removed  from  that  country  hospitality 
which  finds  room  always  for  the  professional  ser- 
vants of  the  family — the  doctor,  the  lawyer,  and  of 
course  the  minister.  When  he  recalled  Miss  Man- 
gler's  malediction  on  such  crude  types  as  Murdoch 
represented  he  was,  however,  amazed  to  find  her 
seated  opposite  him,  smiling  her  vinegary  smile. 
An  ample  woman,  with  bare  and  billowing  shoul- 
ders, who  followed  in  the  wake  of  a  small,  ener- 
getic, elderly,  iron-gray  husband,  were  the  only 
[223] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

other  members  of  the  party.  He  was  presented  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gaines.  Mrs.  Gaines  bowed  with  an 
obvious  timidity  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  immen- 
sity of  her  proportions.  She  wore  ear-rings — 
diamond  circlets.  Bradford  wondered  who  they 
were,  and  learned  later  that  Gaines,  like  Murdoch, 
was  a  trustee,  and,  like  Murdoch,  rich — "  vulgarly 
rich,"  Miss  Mangier  told  him.  "  Do  you  see  her 
ear-rings?  They  say  she  was  his  housekeeper 
once ! " 

"  Well,  if  one  must  be  vulgar,  I  should  rather  be 
vulgarly  rich  than  vulgarly  poor,"  answered 
Bradford,  amiably.  She  was  unable  to  restrain  a 
sharp  look.  At  the  time  he  fancied  that  he  had 
scored  on  The  Curse;  but  he  came  to  regret  the 
remark  later. 

The  dinner  was  exceedingly  good,  and  two  maids 
served  it  exceedingly  well.  Bradford  was  taking 
care  of  Marion  Craven,  and  should  have  enjoyed 
himself.  Moments  of  pleasure  he  did  have,  as  he 
saw  Clarges  punctiliously  attentive  to  the  trans- 
lated housekeeper,  if  such  she  were,  while  the 
spare  trustee,  from  Marion  Craven's  other  side, 
watched  him  jealously,  inattentive  to  the  conversa- 


AMY    IS    WARNED 

tion  of  Miss  Mangier.  But  a  tremendous  centre- 
piece hid  Amy  from  Bradford's  view,  which  an- 
noyed him.  He  could  see  Dr.  Craven,  whose  tired 
face  brightened  with  a  fatherly  smile  as  he  talked, 
but  he  could  hear  nothing  of  what  they  said, 
though,  like  the  spare  trustee,  he  strained  his  ears. 
At  last  Marion  sat  back  in  her  chair  with  an  air  of 
finality,  and  Bradford  turned  to  face  her  guiltily. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  a  particle,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  do  the  same  in  your  place.  But  really,  Mr. 
Bradford,  you  ought  to  trust  me;  you  ought  to 
throw  yourself  on  my  mercy.  I  asked  you  three 
times  in  succession  whether  you  preferred  pie  or 
Swinburne,  and  twice  you  said,  '  Yes,  indeed,'  and 
once,  '  Oh,  are  you  sure?  '  Now,  I  ask  you  seri- 
ously whether  acting  like  that  would  deceive  any- 
body?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Marion,"  he  answered, 
in  some  confusion. 

"  You  needn't.  I  tell  you  I  sympathize  with 
you  altogether ;  only,  as  I  say,  you  ought  to  trust 
me.  Who  knows  but  that  I  might  help  you  in 
some  way?  You  know  what  the  mouse  did  for  the 
lion?  " 

[225] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  trust  you  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  are  going  to  ask  that,  I  shall 
merely  go  back  to  pie  and  Swinburne.  No,  I  shall 
not ;  I  shall  desert  you  altogether,  as  I  ought,  and 
talk  to  Mr.  Gaines,  who  is  worried  because  he 
thinks  the  minister  is  flirting  with  his  wife.  Who 
is  that  minister,  Mr.  Bradford?  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"  Yes,  in  a  way.     I  have  seen  him  pretty  often." 

"Here?" 

"  Sometimes  here." 

"  Is  he  really  making  love  to  Mrs.  Gaines?  " 

"  No ;  his  abilities  are  engaged  in  another  direc- 
tion, I  assure  you." 

Marion  Craven  nodded.  "  Well,"  she  added, 
"  which  do  you  choose — confession,  or  abandon- 
ment? " 

"  You  are  right,  as  usual,"  he  admitted,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Should  you  like  to  change  seats?  I  can  see 
her  from  here;  she  is  looking  very  well  to-night." 

"  No,  thanks ;  I  can  see  your  father,  and  he  is 
looking  very  well,  too." 

Marion's  face  clouded  a  little.  "  Poor  old 
[226] 


AMY    IS    WARNED 

father !  I  wish  he  were,  Mr.  Bradford.  But  you 
are  a  nice  sort  of  lover  to  have  round  the  house — 
willing  to  put  up  with  the  president  of  a  college 
when  you  might  be  watching  Her !  " 

"  If  I  must  surrender  entirely,"  returned  Brad- 
ford, "  you  know  very  well  I  would  rather  be 
watching  Her." 

Miss  Craven  clapped  her  hands  softly.  "  I  won- 
dered if  you  would  be  honest !  And  now,  to  reward 
you — I  shall  let  you  talk  about  Her  to  me." 

Murdoch  was  in  high  spirits — higher  than  usual. 
He  proposed  a  toast  to  Dr.  Craven ;  and  another  to 
the  future  of  Carfax  College.  Over  the  latter  he 
grew  almost  boisterous,  and  winked  at  old  Barrett, 
while  the  lawyer  regarded  him  with  an  amused,  un- 
comprehending stare.  If  Bradford  had  been  no- 
ticing, just  then,  he  might  have  connected  the  act 
with  the  speech  Murdoch  had  made  to  him  once 
about  expansion,  and  been  freshly  sure  that  Carfax 
was  likely  to  witness  a  revolution.  But  he  and 
Marion  were  by  this  time  deep  in  talk,  and  neither 
of  them  observed.  The  minister  wondered  a  little, 
but  the  matter  was  out  of  his  field,  and  he  soon 
ceased  to  think  of  it.  Clarges  was  solving  a  puzzle 


THE     CHAMELEON 

of  his  own.  He  had  arrived  before  Bradford  did, 
and  so  witnessed  Amy's  reception  of  the  young 
man.  Moreover,  he  was  not  so  engrossed  in  his 
attentions  to  the  portly  and  bediamonded  Mrs. 
Gaines  as  not  to  notice  Bradford's  preoccupation. 
He  had  not,  of  late,  seen  the  two  together  very 
often — Bradford  and  Amy.  He  had  no  way  of 
knowing  how  matters  stood  between  them.  To- 
night, as  he  watched  them,  he  began  to  doubt 
whether  he  was  wholly  right  in  his  estimate  of  the 
outcome  of  their  relations.  He  felt  certain  that 
Amy  cared  for  Bradford;  he  began  to  wonder  if 
Bradford  did  not  care  more  for  Amy  than  he  had 
supposed.  Hitherto,  Clarges  had  thought  that 
Bradford's  feeling  for  Amy  was  merely  fancy; 
possessed  of  no  more  depth  than  half  the  airy  theo- 
ries Bradford  often  propounded,  merely  for  amuse- 
ment or  the  attraction  of  attention :  that  Bradford 
liked  her  because  she  obviously  liked  him.  The 
possibility  began  to  dawn  upon  him  now,  that 
Bradford  was  in  earnest  at  last;  felt  at  last  a  real 
emotion ;  loved  Amy  because  he  could  not  help  lov- 
ing her.  And  Clarges  groaned  in  spirit.  This 
made  no  easier  for  Amy  the  tragedy  which  must 
[228] 


AMY    IS    WARNED 

inevitably  follow  their  marriage,  if  married  they 
were ;  it  only  increased  the  tragedy  to  Bradford. 

When  dinner  was  over,  and  the  men  had  joined 
the  ladies — which  was  soon,  for  the  spare  trustee 
was  obviously  uneasy  out  of  his  wife's  company — 
Clarges  said  to  Amy,  in  his  odd,  abrupt  fashion, 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  little.     May  I  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Then  come  here,  Amy."  He  drew  her  away, 
and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  she  followed. 
Bradford,  with  a  pang  like  a  sword,  watched  them 
go.  She  cared  nothing  for  him,  he  thought;  this 
hypocritical,  sneering  minister  satisfied  her  entire- 
ly. Miss  Mangier  began  to  talk  to  him,  and  he 
answered  her  savagely  enough  to  satisfy  even  her 
love  for  acrid  condemnation  of  the  world.  They 
talked  of  Carfaxians;  and  Bradford  flung  out  at 
them  left  and  right,  while  she  applauded  his  bru- 
tality until  he  had  almost  forgotten  his  ill-humor 
and  forgiven  her  for  existence. 

Meanwhile    Clarges    and    the    girl    faced    each 
other,   Amy    indifferently,    Clarges   outwardly    as 
usual,  but  with  a  sombre,  unquiet  light  in  his  eyes 
which  showed  the  fires  within  him. 
[229] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Amy,"  he  said,  abruptly,  when  they  were 
alone,  "  why  do  you  hate  me  ?  " 

"  Must  we  talk  about  each  other  ?  "  she  asked, 
but  without  pleading.  He  nodded  stubbornly. 
"  I  don't  hate  you,"  she  continued,  wearily.  "  I 
don't  think  about  you." 

"  Put  it  as  you  please,"  he  answered.  "  You 
don't  like  me.  Is  it  because  I  show  you  that  I 
love  you?  " 

She  shivered  a  little,  but  she  neither  rose  nor 
answered.  After  a  moment,  he  went  on,  "  You 
must  have  seen  that.  Yet  I  have  never  told  you  of 
it.  I  resolved  never  to  insult  you  by  telling  you, 
since  I  dared  not  marry  you.  Now  I  have  broken 
my  resolve;  but  only  because  I  was  sure  you  dis- 
liked me,  and  would  not  grieve  to  think  that  I 
had  suffered." 

"  I  do  dislike  you,"  she  answered,  raising  her 
eyes  to  meet  his.  "  I  do  not  think  I  have  done 
anything  to  you  which  deserves  this  insult  from 
you.  If  you  have  quite  finished,  we  will  go  back. 
And  please  do  not  speak  to  me  again,  Father 
Clarges." 

"  I  will  not,"  he  answered,  under  his  breath, 
[230] 


AMY    IS    WARNED 

"  after  I  have  finished  this  once.  Amy,  tell  me, 
tell  me — I  will  swear  to  you  on  my  knees  if  you 
want — tell  me  that  you  do  not  care  for — that  man 
yonder;  for  Bradford?  Promise  me  you  will  not 
marry  him!  It  would  be  certain  unhappiness  to 
both  of  you — certain,  certain!  Think  what  you 
please  of  me;  think  that  I  am  merely  trying  to 
slander  a  better  man  than  I  am;  think  that  I  am 
the  meanest  and  lowest  man  on  earth,  but  believe  me 
when  I  say  it  would  be  certain  unhappiness  for 
him  as  well  as  for  you — if  he  loves  you !  You  can- 
not help  seeing  what  I  mean !  You  cannot  help 
seeing  that  he  does  not  ring  true,  and  that  you 
do!  You  cannot  believe  him  sincere  and  genuine 
in  all  he  does,  as  the  man  who  marries  you  must 
be !  You  cannot,  I  say " 

She  had  heard  him  so  far  with  a  paling  face. 
Now  she  rose.  "  I  think  you  must  be  ill,"  she 
interrupted,  curtly ;  "  ill,  or  mad.  Will  you  let 
me  pass,  Father,  or  shall  I  call  to  my  uncle  ?  " 

He  stood  aside  and  bowed,  and  she  hurried  by 
him.  She  paused  a  moment  in  the  doorway  to 
calm  herself;  then  she  walked  across  to  where 
Bradford  and  Miss  Mangier  were  sitting;  walked 

] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

as  steadily  and  quietly  as  when  she  had  moved  out 
to  dinner  on  Dr.  Craven's  arm.  Bradford,  with  a 
recurrence  of  hope,  saw  her  come  back  alone,  and 
jumped  up  to  make  room  for  her. 

"  We  were  discussing  the  statue  of  Garibaldi  in 
the  Pantheon  at  Rome,"  said  Miss  Mangier,  with  a 
quick  glance  at  Bradford.  "  I  was  just  saying  to 
Mr.  Bradford  that  to  see  it  there  gave  one  such  a 
feeling  of  the  tolerance  of  the  Italian  in  political 
matters,  hot-headed  as  he  is;  and  he  quite  agrees 
with  me.  By  the  way,  I  have  forgotten — where 
does  it  stand,  Mr.  Bradford — to  the  right  or  left 
of  Victor  Emmanuel's  tomb?  " 

Bradford  for  the  life  of  him  could  recollect  no 
statue  of  Garibaldi  in  the  Pantheon,  but  Miss 
Mangier  was  a  student  of  Roman  history,  and 
never  made  mistakes.  "  To  the  right,  I  think,  but 
I  am  not  sure,"  he  answered. 

"  You  remember  the  statue,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Oh,  perfectly." 

Miss  Mangler's  eye  was  full  of  triumph  now. 
"  Now  that  I  recall,"  she  said,  musingly,  "  is  it  in 
the  Pantheon,  though?  Isn't  it  on  that  open  space 
back  of  the  Colosseum?  " 

[232] 


AMY    IS    WARNED 

"  Perhaps  there  is  one  there ;  I  don't  seem  to  re- 
member." 

"  But  you  are  perfectly  sure,  you  say,  of  the 
one  in  the  Pantheon?  " 

Bradford,  half-amused  and  half-fearful,  since 
Amy  was  there,  saw  Miss  Mangler's  little  game, 
and  blocked  it  by  impudence.  "  Yes ;  quite  sure." 

She  turned  with  fresh  zest  to  the  minister,  who 
was  just  then  in  the  doorway. 

"  Father  Clarges,  do  you  remember  any  statue 
of  Garibaldi  in  the  Pantheon?  Is  there  one  there? 
Mr.  Bradford  assures  us  he  has  seen  it,  though,  so 
of  course  there  must  be." 

Clarges  saw  the  malice  sparkling  in  her  look, 
and  bowed  gravely,  while  Bradford  began  rapidly 
planning  how  to  pass  his  statement  lightly  off. 
"  He  is  quite  right,"  answered  the  rector,  "  ac- 
cording to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  Miss  Man- 
gler." 

Bradford  could  scarcely  believe  his  ears. 


[233] 


Chapter  Thirteen 

A  GIRL  AND  TEN  MIL-LION 

"  It's  very  curious,"  said  Miss  Craven,  earnestly, 
"  but  I  do  like  you ;  yes,  I  do."  She  looked  at 
Amy  solemnly. 

Amy  pondered.  "  I  suppose  it  is  curious,"  she 
admitted,  thoughtfully,  "  but  other  people  have 
liked  me,  Miss  Craven." 

"  You  are  an  adorable  child ! "  cried  Miss  Cra- 
ven. "  As  if  anyone  could  help  liking  you !  I 
only  meant  that  it  was  curious  in  my  case,  because 
— because — well,  you  know  why." 

"  I  don't,"  answered  Amy.     "  No ;  I  don't." 

"  You,"  explained  Miss  Craven,  "  have  an  uncle, 
while  I  have  a  father." 

There  was  obvious  bewilderment  in  Miss  Power's 
eye. 

"  Well !  "  Marion  answered  her  look.  "  Don't 
you  know  that  your  uncle  stands  for  one  set  of 
[234] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

theories,  and  my  father  for  another?  Your  uncle 
is  in  a  hurry;  he  wants  to  run,  and  my  father  is 
too — too  careful — to  run.  He  would  rather  walk. 
And  then  your  uncle  thinks  he  is  only  crawling. 
And  so — "  She  spread  her  hands  in  a  dramatic 
gesture. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  Miss  Power  asked,  with  her 
customary  directness,  "  that  they  don't  get  on  well 
— your  father  and  Uncle  Jack?  Don't  they  like 
each  other?  " 

Miss  Craven,  thus  reduced  to  particularity, 
laughed  again.  "  No,"  she  admitted,  "  I  don't 
mean  that.  I  think  your  uncle  is  fond  of  my 
father,  and  I  know  that  the  Doctor  respects  Mr. 
Murdoch  very  highly.  Of  course  we  all  do.  They 
are  as  friendly  as — as  can  be.  But  after  all,  you 
know,  they  are  looking  two  different  ways;  they 
want  different  things ;  and  one  of  them  has  got  to 
give  in." 

"  What  different  things?  " 

Marion  regarded  her  with  amused  eyes,  in  which 
a  trace  of  pity  lingered.  "  Don't  you  know  why 
your  uncle  was  put  on  the  board  of  trustees  ?  "  she 
asked. 

[235] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Uncle  Jack  never  talks  to  me  about  business." 
"  Well !  He  represents  a  lot  of  people  who 
think  my  father  ought  to  give  up  the  presidency." 
Said  Amy,  simply,  "  I  don't  believe  it." 
Miss  Craven  wagged  her  head.  "  Ah,  my  dear, 
but  it's  true,  though  it's  not  usually  put  in  just 
that  way,  and  though  perhaps  even  your  uncle 
doesn't  see  it  so.  There  are  a  great  many  people 
in  Carfax  who  want  a  different  sort  of  college 
here.  No;  I  don't  know  what  kind  they  want;  I 
don't  believe — saving  your  presence,  child — they 
do  either.  But  I  know  this — Carfax  College  is 
the  kind  of  college  my  father  loves  and  under- 
stands, and  the  only  kind  he  is  willing  to  be  at  the 
head  of.  He  isn't  a  beggar;  he  can't  go  out  and 
wrench  money  from  people,  like  an  Italian  with  a 
hand-organ."  Miss  Craven's  voice  was  not  with- 
out scorn  and  bitterness.  "  He  is  only  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman,  and  that,  it  seems,  isn't  enough 
nowadays  in  a  college  president." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mean,"  said  Amy,  with  her 
fatal  feminine   instinct  for  the  redtictw    ad    per- 
sonam,   "  that  Uncle  Jack  is  not  a  gentleman,  be- 
cause he  is  a  business-man." 
[236] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

"  A  million  times  no !  "  cried  Miss  Craven.  She 
cried  it  all  the  more  eagerly  because  of  a  little  sub- 
consciousness  that  she  might  have  meant  exactly 
that.  "  A  million  times  no !  I  like  your  uncle  im- 
mensely. That  is  another  curious  thing.  I  don't 
want  to  like  him,  for  I  know  that  he  is  bound  to 
have  his  way  sooner  or  later.  Father  is  only 
standing  still,  I  suppose.  He  is  standing  on  solid 
ground,  and  nobody  quite  knows  where  all  the 
people  who  want  to  progress  are  going  to  progress 
to.  But  they  will  get  their  progress,  of  course. 
All  I  hope  is  that  it  won't  come  just  yet." 

"  But  if  it's  bound  to  come  some  time  ?  "  Amy 
Power  was  incapable  of  understanding  a  person 
who  could  not  bravely  face  the  future,  good  or 
bad. 

"  It  needn't  come  in  father's  time,"  Miss  Craven 
answered,  obstinately.  "  He  isn't  a  young  man 
any  more.  He  has  lived  his  whole  life  in  the  col- 
lege, and  for  the  college,  and  if  they  turn  him  out 
now,  I  call  it  downright  inhuman." 

"  But  they  won't  turn  him  out,"  objected  Amy. 
"Why  should  they?  Anybody  can  get  money,  if 
that  is  what  they  need ;  I'm  sure  Uncle  Jack  could 
[237] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

give  them  any  amount,  if  he  chose.  If  they  all 
want  a  larger  college,  and  that  seems  to  be  what 
you  mean,  why  shouldn't  they  give  the  money  to 
Dr.  Craven,  and  let  that  end  it?  " 

Dr.  Craven's  daughter  smiled  a  little  sadly. 
"  They  think  that  he  is  an  old  man,  dear.  They 
think  that  he  is  behind  the  times.  They  think  that 
even  if  he  had  the  money,  he  couldn't  take  care  of 
it;  and  so  nobody  will  give  it.  They  are  quite 
right.  It  would  frighten  my  father  to  be  dealing 
in  millions,  such  as  colleges  are  getting  nowadays. 
He  would  not  know  what  to  do.  But,"  she  went 
on,  rapidly,  eagerly,  "  why  need  they  have  this 
new  university  this  year  or  next?  That  is  what  I 
can't  see.  There  is  plenty  of  time.  My  father 
has  taken  plenty  of  responsibility  for  the  college; 
hasn't  the  college  any  responsibility  toward  him? 
Hasn't  he  deserved  anything  for  all  the  years  he 
has  worked?  Suppose  they  are  right,  and  he  is 
old-fashioned  and  slow — he's  given  his  life  unself- 
ishly, and  it  would  kill  him  if  they  told  him  to  go 
now,  like  a  servant  who  is  too  old  to  work." 

"  They  never  will !  "  said  Amy,  positively. 

"  Yes,  they  will — if  they  can."  Miss  Craven 
[238] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

opened  and  shut  her  eyes  rapidly  several  times, 
to  wink  away  a  tear.  Then  she  leaned  forward, 
smiling  brilliantly.  "  Why  am  I  talking  so  ab- 
surdly? You  are  actually  looking  downhearted, 
Amy.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.  It  slipped 
out.  Do  you  mind  if  I  call  you  Amy?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would,  please." 

"  Well  then,  I  will — Amy.  I  chatter  like  an  old 
woman  as  I  am,  all  about  my  own  concerns,  and 
never  a  word  of  yours.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing? " 

"  The  same  things  all  winter." 

"Has  it  been  long?" 

"  Not  very." 

"  Let  me  see."  Miss  Craven  appeared  to  medi- 
tate. "  I  have  seen  you  five — no,  six  times.  Once 
I  called  with  Isabelle,  and  someone  came — to  bring 
a  book,  he  said.  Twice  you  have  been  to  tea  on 
Thursdays;  both  times  someone  else  was  there. 
Once  we  went  skating — four  of  us.  Once  we  were 
here  at  dinner.  And  now  I'm  calling  on  you,  and 
no  one  else  is  here.  Is  there  anything  in  this  re- 
cital, my  dear  Amy,  to  cause  a  blush — that  blush 
which  I  seem  to  see?  " 

[239] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Nothing."  The  blush  was  very  faint,  if  it 
was  there  at  all. 

"  And  you  haven't  any  particular  reason  to  give 
a  friend  why  the  winter  hasn't  been  long  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  have  been  busy ;  and  it  has  been 
pleasant  to  know  more  people — you,  for  example, 
Miss  Craven.  I  never  went  out  much  before  this 
winter." 

"  Don't  you  know  that  my  friends  call  me 
Marion  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  friend,  too." 

"Too— what?" 

"  To  Miss  Craven." 

Marion  Craven  laughed.  She  really  laughed  a 
great  deal.  "  Amy,"  she  said,  "  I  am  thirty-four 
years  old.  I  have  been  engaged  to  three  men. 
The  first  time  was  in  the  moonlight.  Afterward 
I  lay  awake  all  that  night,  and  next  day  I  wrote 
and  told  him  I  had  been  mistaken;  I  was  not  in 
love  with  him,  but  with  the  moon.  So  he  forgave 
me.  The  second  one — well,  never  mind  him,  dear." 
Her  voice  softened  regretfully.  "  I  treated  him 
badly,  I'm  afraid.  Yet  what  could  I  do,  when  I 
found  out?  The  third  was  Platonic.  We  under- 
[240] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

stood,  both  of  us,  that,  if  we  saw  anyone  else  we 
preferred,  we  were  free.  Meanwhile,  he  was  to 
play  no  more  poker,  which  was  bad  for  him.  When 
he  came  and  told  me  about  another  girl  that  he  had 
met — as  he  did — the  only  thing  I  said  was,  *  And 
the  poker?  '  He  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  So 
I  gave  them  both  my  blessing;  and  that  was  the 
end  of  him.  Now  will  you  tell  me  about  Mr. 
Bradford?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell." 

"  My  dear,  don't  you  know  he's  in  love  with 
you?  " 

"  I  think  he  likes  me." 

"And?" 

"  There  is  no  and.     He  hasn't  told  me  so." 

"But  what  shall  you  say  when  he  does?" 

"  I'll  tell  you — "     Amy  paused. 

"Well?" 

"  When  I've  told  him." 

Chagrin,  curiosity,  and  amusement  struggled 
for  expression  in  Miss  Craven's  face,  and  amuse- 
ment conquered.  "  Amy,"  she  said,  soberly,  "  I 
never  hesitated  to  talk  about  my  men.  From 

which  I  judge " 

[241  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"What?"  asked  Miss  Power,  unwarily. 

"  That  I  never  was  really  in  love,"  finished  Miss 
Craven.  And  this  time  the  blush  was  plainer  to 
be  seen  in  Miss  Power's  face.  Miss  Craven  smiled. 
"  I  must  be  going." 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay." 

"  My  dear,  I  wish  I  might.  But  I  only  came, 
after  all,  to  bring  Isabelle's  excuses.  She  goes  out 
so  little,  now;  we  don't  like  to  leave  the  Doctor 
alone  any  more  than  we  can  help.  In  the  first 
place,  he's  not  feeling  very,  very  well,  and  in  the 
second,  he's  grown  so  absent-minded  that  I  am  cer- 
tain he  has  already  patted  the  wood-box  and  put 
the  cat  into  the  fire.  Good-by,  Amy.  It  is  curious 
— but  I  certainly  do  like  you." 

At  dinner  that  evening,  Amy  told  her  uncle  of 
Miss  Craven's  call.  "  She  is  nice,  Uncle  Jack.  I 
think  she  is  funny." 

"  She's  the  finest  old  maid  in  Carfax." 

"  She  isn't  old  to  look  at." 

"  She's  no  spring  chicken,  Amy ;  she's  older  than 
she  looks.  What  did  she  have  to  say?  " 

"  Nothing  especial.  We  talked  a  little  about 
the  college." 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

"  Did  she  have  any  news  for  you  ?  " 

«  No,  sir." 

The  pickle-maker  leaned  back,  shoving  his  hands 
into  his  trousers  pockets.  He  liked  to  sit  so  at 
the  end  of  a  meal,  and  let  his  big  chest  expand 
while  he  looked  about  the  dining-room  and  revelled 
silently  in  the  consciousness  of  his  own  success.  In 
his  own  phrase,  he  got  down  to  the  sugar  in  such 
moments.  Relieved  of  the  instant  necessity  of 
toil,  he  could  cast  his  eyes  back  over  what  he  had 
accomplished,  like  a  ploughman  at  the  end  of  a 
long  furrow.  At  last  he  said, 

"  Well,  I  have  some  for  you." 

"  Yes  ?  "  She  was  pouring  hot  water  into  a  re- 
ceptacle like  the  inverted  top  of  an  hour-glass. 
Now  she  reversed  it,  and  let  the  water  strain 
through  the  orifice.  Murdoch's  coffee  in  the  even- 
ing Amy  always  made. 

"  Amy,  girl,  do  you  know  I'm  a  rich  man?  " 

She  glanced  up,  surprised.  "  Why,  I  hadn't 
thought  much  about  it,  Uncle  Jack.  But  of 
course,  I  supposed  so." 

"  A — pretty — rich — man.  Do  you  know  how 
rich  a  man  has  to  be  to  think  of  giving  away  ten 
[243] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

million  dollars  ?  "  His  voice  lingered  caressingly 
on  the  last  words,  as  a  violinist  sighs  his  whole  heart 
into  the  last  strain  of  his  sonata,  or  a  sculptor 
draws  the  reverent  cloth  from  the  masterpiece  of 
his  art.  And  he  had  from  Amy  the  long,  aston- 
ished look  he  coveted. 

"  To  give  away — ten  million !  " 

The  pickle-maker  pursed  his  lips  and  nodded, 
not  looking  at  his  niece.  Oh,  the  pride  and  self- 
control  in  that  little  nod ! 

"  But,"  she  asked,  after  a  moment,  in  a  puzzled 
voice,  "  why  should  you  give  it  away,  Uncle 
Jack?  "  Her  feminine  mind  was  lost  in  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  sum.  Although  she  was  far  from  imag- 
inative, she  saw  the  whole  world  spinning  with 
silver  dollars,  and  greedy  hands  clutching  at  each. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  that  her  uncle  meant  to 
bestow  the  mass  in  a  lump. 

"  The  college  needs  it,  and  I've  got  it  to  give." 

"The  college!" 

"  Yes,  child.  It's  for  the  college,  of  course. 
I've  been  thinking  of  it  for  a  long  time." 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly.  She  was  recalling 
what  Marion  Craven  had  said  that  afternoon.  He 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

fancied  she  was  waiting  for  details,  and  he  poured 
them  out  like  water. 

"  You  see,  Amy,  we've  been  running  behind  here 
at  Carfax.  When  I  go  out  and  meet  men  from 
Yale  and  Harvard,  and  tell  them  I  come  from  Car- 
fax College,  they  wonder  where  it  is.  Nobody 
has  heard  of  it,  you  might  say,  outside  the  State. 
It  rubs  along  with  the  old  buildings,  and  now  and 
then  a  new  library,  or  something  of  the  sort,  and 
every  year  it  has  maybe  ten  more  men  in  the  fresh- 
man class  than  the  year  before,  and  that's  the  end. 
It's  a  fine  old  college,  and  I  love  it,  and  I  wouldn't 
tear  down  one  of  those  old  buildings  if  I  had  to 
spend  ten  thousand  bracing  the  walls  till  they'd 
hold  up  the  ivy.  But  it  can't  stand  still  this  way ; 
it's  either  got  to  grow,  or  it's  got  to  die,  one  or 
the  other,  like  all  the  rest  of  us.  We've  got  to 
swim  or  we've  got  to  sink,  my  dear;  and  by  the 
Lord  Harry,  we're  going  to  swim!  You  under- 
stand, I  have  only  given  them  the  endowment,  not 
the  principal ;  that  stays  in  my  hands  for  the  pres- 
ent, though  they  get  it  outright  when  I  die.  But 
I  can  turn  over  a  good,  solid  seven  per  cent."  He 
spoke  proudly,  as  well  he  might.  "  Seven  hun- 
[245] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

dred  thousand  dollars  a  year  Carfax  College  is  to 
spend.  There  aren't  a  great  many  incomes  like 
that,  Amy.  She'll  have  the  endowment  she  has 
already,  and  she'll  have  some  income  from  tuition, 
and  she'll  have  my  money;  and  it'll  foot  up  to 
precious  near  a  million  a  year.  What  can't  they 
have  for  that  money?  They  can  have  a  technical 
school,  and  a  law  school,  and  a  school  for  saw- 
bones, and  then  put  a  lot  into  buildings  to  keep 
the  students  in.  There'll  be  plenty,  I  fancy,  with 
a  million  a  year.  Carfax  will  be  the  biggest  thing 
in  the  country,  Amy;  no  doubt  of  it.  She's  only 
waiting  for  the  word.  And  the  contract  is  all 
ready — signed,  sealed,  and — well,  it  ain't  delivered 
yet,  but  it's  going  to  be  soon,  now.  I  just  wanted 
to  tell  you  first,  you  see.  There  are  a  few  details, 
but  they'll  soon  be  fixed.  The  Murdoch  Fund,  it's 
to  be  called.  The  Murdoch  Fund.  I  reckon  that 
will  make  a  noise  when  it  gets  into  the  newspapers 
— eh,  Amy?  And  it's  to  be  as  free  as  air  to  them. 
I  haven't  tied  it  up  with  conditions.  I  ain't  the 
sort  of  man  that  gives  with  his  right  hand  and 
takes  away  with  his  left.  We  must  find  the  right 
man  to  spend  it,  and  then  he  gets  the  loot — seven 
[246] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

hundred  thousand  dollars  a  year,  cash  down  on  the 
nail.  Little  over  eleven  years  ago  it  was  I  began 
the  business.  I  fought  along  for  two  years,  and 
then  you  came,  little  girl,  and  fetched  the  luck  with 
you.  More  than  a  million  to  give  away  for  every 
year  since  then.  How  does  that  sound,  Amy? 
By  the  Lord  Harry — by  the  Lord  Harry,  I  say, 
my  dear,  I  think  I've  done  pretty  well,  eh?  " 

Put  two  marks  of  exclamation  after  the  ques- 
tion ;  put  three.  This  was  the  reward  of  Mur- 
doch's labors.  To  say  these  things,  in  this  tone, 
to  his  niece,  and  to  the  world,  was  John  Murdoch's 
triumph.  He  spent  fifteen  hundred  a  year  on  him- 
self, fifteen  thousand  on  his  niece  and  his  house — 
and  the  rest,  so  far  as  it  was  merely  money,  he 
cared  no  more  for  than  the  dust  in  the  street.  He 
would  have  liked  to  spend  thirty  thousand  on  Amy 
instead  of  fifteen,  but  he  did  not  know  how.  He 
was  a  man  who  tipped  a  porter  five  dollars,  where 
other  men  gave  a  quarter.  Was  there  ostentation 
in  him?  Not  the  least  of  the  least.  He  had  the 
money,  and  he  spent  it  happily,  gleefully.  When 
the  bucket  runs  over,  it  is  a  mean  man  who  watches 
the  drops.  This  speech  of  Murdoch's  was  his 
[247] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

paean,  his  song  of  victory,  his  lo  triumphe!  He 
thrust  his  hands  deeper  into  his  trousers  pockets. 
The  gesture  was  the  only  expression  he  could  think 
of  for  the  emotion  which  ruled  him.  The  pickle- 
maker  was  a  king — a  modern  king;  and  royally 
he  looked  upon  the  world. 

"  Here  is  your  coffee,  dear."  Amy  seldom  called 
him  so ;  Murdoch  knew  that  she  was  glad  with  him. 

"Uncle  Jack?" 

"Yes,  Amy?" 

"  Does  nobody  else  know  about  this  yet?  " 

"  Only  old  Barrett,  my  dear." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  give  it  to  the  college  right 
away  ?  " 

Murdoch's  face  clouded  a  little.  "  Amy,"  he 
said,  with  perceptible  hesitation,  "  you  don't  think 
I'm  ungenerous  to  you,  giving  this  away,  do  you? 
Why,  little  girl,  you're  my  luck,  you  know ;  you've 
always  been  my  luck,  since  you  came  to  me,  with 
your  short  dresses  and  your  long  legs.  Always, 
Amy,  girl.  You  don't  think  I  ain't  looking  out  for 
you,  do  you?  " 

She  rose,  and  came  round  to  him.  "Sit  so," 
she  commanded.  She  sat  upon  his  lap,  and  put 
[248] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

her  arm  around  his  neck.  "  Uncle,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  do  you  think  I'm  only  joking  when  I  tell  you  I 
love  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,  Amy." 

"Well,  then.  Isn't  the  money  yours?  You 
got  it;  I  never  even  knew  where.  I  know  that  I 
have  had  more  of  it  than  I  could  use.  If  you  told 
me  you  were  all  of  a  sudden  poor,  I  could  stand 
that  very  easily,  couldn't  I?  You  needn't  be 
afraid  for  me.  But " 

"Well,  Amy?" 

"  I  was  only  thinking — of  Dr.  Craven." 

If  Amy  herself  had  not  been  where  she  was, 
and  Amy's  arm  had  not  been  lying  on  his  shoulder, 
the  pickle-maker  might  have  said  something 
stronger  than  "  Craven  again !  "  For,  when  one 
really  desires  and  is  determined  to  do  a  generous 
thing,  it  is  certainly  trying  to  find  an  insignificant 
obstacle  always  in  the  way. 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Jack.  When  you  give  this  ten 
million — think  of  it !  ten  million ! ! — when  you  give 
it,  Dr.  Craven  will  leave,  you  know." 

"  And  suppose  he  does,  Amy  ?  " 

"Won't  he  think  it's  rather — cruel?" 
[249] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Cruel  ?  "  The  pickle-maker  spoke  with  vehe- 
mence. "  He'll  be  a  doddering  old  fool  if  he  does, 
Amy.  It's  all  arranged  about  Craven ;  he's  to 
have  a  pension  of — oh,  whatever  he  wants;  four 
thousand,  if  he'll  take  that  much.  That'll  be  all 
right,  won't  it?  He  can't  ask  more  than  that?  " 
For  Amy's  sake,  Murdoch  made  his  answer  as  gentle 
as  he  could;  though  secretly  he  was  hurt  that  his 
own  niece  should  fail  to  appreciate  his  benefaction 
more  highly,  he  would  not  let  her  see  it.  But 
Amy's  vision  was  at  once  clear  and  narrow.  When 
her  eyes  were  opened  upon  a  matter,  she  could 
neither  close  them  to  it,  nor  easily  see  it  from 
another  angle.  Now  the  vision  of  the  old  Doctor 
was  vivid  to  her ;  she  saw  him  as  his  daughter  had 
pictured  him. 

"  He  is  an  old  man,  Uncle  Jack." 

"  Sixty-six  or  seven,  I  reckon." 

"  If  you  had  built  up  a  business,  would  you 
want  to  leave  it  when  you  were  sixty-six  or  seven, 
and  take  a  pension,  Uncle  Jack  ?  " 

Murdoch  stirred  uneasily.  The  point  of  view 
was  not  new  to  him.  But  what  could  he  do?  Are 
we  to  delay  the  car  of  Progress  because  its  wheels 
[250] 


A    GIRL    AND     TEN     MILLION 

run  over  an  old  scholar?  The  idea  is  patently 
absurd.  Such  is  not  the  law  of  the  road.  In 
other  words,  and  still  gently,  he  showed  her  this. 
But  still  she  was  unsatisfied  and  persistent. 

"  He  isn't  very  strong,  Uncle  Jack ;  Miss  Craven 
told  me  so  to-day." 

"  She  stretched  it,  likely."  Murdoch  was  trying 
not  to  lose  his  temper. 

"Uncle  Jack!" 

"  Well ;  maybe  I  shouldn't  have  said  that. 
But — "  He  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Dear,  couldn't  you  put  this  off  for  a  year? 
Nobody  knows  about  it  but  us.  Would  a  year 
make  much  difference  ?  " 

"  Amy ! " 

"  I  was  only  wondering.  Of  course,  I  suppose 
you  couldn't." 

"But  what  good  would  that  do?" 

"  Dr.  Craven  might  find  that  he  wasn't  able  to 
carry  on  the  work,  and  resign.  That  wouldn't 
make  it  seem  to  him  as  if  he  were  driven  out,  you 
see.  If  you  told  him  about  this  right  away,  of 
course  he  would  go,  but  everything  would  be  so 
different  to  him,  wouldn't  it?  " 
[251] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Murdoch  drew  himself  together,  and  pondered 
while  his  niece  sat  quietly  on  his  knee.  In  his 
mind's  eye  he  saw  the  flaring  headlines  which  an- 
nounced his  enormous  gift : 

TEN   MILLION   DOLLAR   GIFT   OF   JOHN 
MURDOCH 

WELL-KNOWN   MANUFACTURER   DONATES  TEN   MILL- 
ION    DOLLARS     TO     CARFAX     COLLEGE,     HIS     ALMA 
MATER.     SKETCH   OF    THE   BENEFACTOR'S    LIFE 

One  of  the  sweetest  drops  in  Murdoch's  cup  was 
the  quickness  of  his  success.  Now  every  month  he 
delayed  made  his  announcement  more  common- 
place. Soon  he  would  be  forty  years  old,  and 
perhaps  no  one  would  know  of  his  generosity  and 
ability  by  then !  He  sat  in  silence  long,  long 
minutes,  with  Amy's  fingers  in  his  own.  She 
waited,  ready  to  accept  unquestionably  his  deci- 
sion ;  she  believed  in  her  uncle,  as  he  knew. 

"  All  right,  little  girl,  for  a  year,  then,"  he 
said. 

"  I  think  it  will  be  nicer  so,  dear,"  Those  were 
[252] 


A    GIRL    AND    TEN    MILLION 

all  his  thanks.  She  failed  entirely  to  appreciate 
the  strength  of  his  desire  and  the  measure  of  his 
sacrifice.  Her  nature  was  as  simple  and  clear  as 
her  gray  eyes.  To  Amy  Power,  even  at  nineteen, 
a  situation  was  something  to  be  faced,  finished,  for- 
gotten. She  saw  always  two  paths  stretching  out 
before  her ;  one  was  right  to  choose,  one  was  wrong. 
Happy  Amy !  So,  therefore,  because  Marion 
Craven  happened  to  call  that  day,  and  a  girl's 
nature  happened  to  be  sweet,  and  a  strong  man 
happened  to  be  great-hearted,  the  progress  of 
education  must  be  delayed  a  while;  the  ten  million 
dollars  which  was  to  put  Carfax  College  where  it 
belonged,  must  remain  for  a  time  unheralded.  It 
is  a  tremendous  sum,  ten  million  dollars.  An  em- 
pire has  been  wrecked  by  a  desire  for  less.  And 
yet  there  are  greater  matters — simple  human  kind- 
ness, for  example. 


[253] 


Chapter  Fourteen 

THE    AWAKENING    OF    AMY 

May  days  in  Carfax.  Buds  turning  into  blossoms, 
wind  sparkling  on  the  river,  a  wild  largess  of  sun- 
shine, and  the  last  gray  goose  gone  north.  Oh,  the 
hint  and  promise  in  the  cherries!  Oh,  the  bright 
gold  of  the  dandelions!  Oh,  the  small  Irish  lads 
unclothed  and  shivering  to  the  first  chilly  plunge ! 
Oh,  the  quintessential  sweetness  of  the  year! 

So  one  might  think.  But  modern  America  de- 
sires in  her  cities  no  such  glory.  Celebrate  instead 
the  slush,  clogging  the  high-piled  van  which  moves 
from  undesirable  house  to  undesirable  flat.  Sing 
rather  the  long-drawn,  unintelligible  scream  which 
heralds  the  approach  of  the  rag-and-bottle-man — 
or  is  it  the  Italian  with  strawberries?  Who  knows 
till  he  comes  in  sight  ?  Groan  lamentably  with  the 
lamentable  groaning  of  the  street-piano  and  its 
Neapolitan  parasites — what  a  taste  the  Latin 
[254.] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF    AMY 

nations  have  in  torture  since  the  Spanish  inquisi- 
tion !  Cry  aloud  of  the  bargain  sale,  and  the 
lawn-sprinklers,  and  newly  spread  ingathering 
banana-peel.  These  are  the  signs  of  May  in  Car- 
fax. Amy  fled  them,  going  to  Murdoch's  country 
place,  where  she  liked  the  stillness  and  the  trees; 
and  there,  one  Saturday  afternoon,  Murdoch  took 
Bradford,  too.  The  pickle-maker  never  thought  of 
asking  his  niece  whether  or  not  he  should  bring 
the  young  man.  He  liked  Bradford,  and  rather 
fancied  Amy  did,  and  what  other  chaperon  than 
liking  could  be  desired?  Any  author,  writing 
short  stories  of  society  for  seven  dollars  a  page, 
could  have  told  him  glibly  of  his  error,  had  he  but 
asked.  Bradford  went  with  joy  and  hesitation. 
He  hoped,  he  wondered ;  sometimes  he  only  feared. 
When  Amy  Power  saw  the  two  drive  up,  in  the 
early  twilight,  she  thought — who  may  say  what  a 
maid  thinks,  whose  eyes  are  clear  and  gray  as  water 
in  a  spring,  and  whose  face  is  untroubled  by  a  line? 
Not  Bradford,  at  least,  could  tell. 

The  pickle-maker's  country  house  was  a  ram- 
bling, one-storied,  slate-colored  bungalow,  standing 
on  the  roll  of  a  wide  and  shallow  hill.     To  the 
[255] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

north  and  east  pine-woods  clustered  right  up  to 
the  house,  the  great  trees  solemnly  looking  down 
upon  the  house,  and  in  a  wind  leaning  over  to  drop 
cones  down  the  chimneys.  South  and  west  sloped 
the  lawn,  broad  and  riotous  in  flowers,  and  ended  in 
both  directions  at  the  river,  which  here  swung 
round  a  curve.  The  river  was  six  feet  deep  and 
ninety  wide,  and  ran  full  and  strong  like  a  race- 
horse. Beyond  the  river  again,  reached  by  two 
log-buttressed  bridges,  the  land  climbed  to  a  ridge, 
and  all  the  pines  seemed  hurrying  to  the  top  to 
look  over.  Thus,  it  is  plain,  on  all  sides  the 
pattering  stillness  of  the  forest  shut  in  the  clear- 
ing. 

An  elderly  grumbler  by  the  name  of  Lowton 
lived  at  the  place,  and  with  his  daughter  and  two 
grandsons,  aged  respectively  five  and  nine,  took 
care  of  it  in  winter.  He  was  wholly  independent 
in  speech,  but  as  faithful  as  a  watch-dog,  if  he  were 
given  his  leave  to  growl.  He  growled  in  particu- 
lar at  the  woods.  Bradford,  fraternizing  with 
him,  thought  to  please  him  by  remarking  on  the 
beauty  of  the  place,  but  Lowton  could  not  agree. 

"  There  ain't  a  speck  of  cut  wood  on  the  place," 
[256] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

he  declared,  "  that's  fit  to  burn,  an'  yet  miles  of 
trees  right  on  top  of  us !  Mr.  Murdoch,  he  won't 
have  a  one  cut,  an'  why?  He's  so  fond  of  his 
darned  old  blooming  Nature,  ez  he  calls  it,  that  he 
wants  'em  all  to  stand.  '  There's  lots  of  dead 
trees  fallen,'  he  sez ;  *  jest  use  them,  Lowton.'  How 
kin  I  use  them  ?  Rotten  wood  won't  burn ;  's  agin 
Nature.  It's  all  right  fer  you  folks  in  summer, 
with  the  sun  a-shinin'  and  the  river  dancin'  and 
your  old  Nature  jest  a-caperin'  like  a  young  calf, 
but  you'd  oughto  be  here  in  winter  and  watch  her 
prance !  Them  old  snags  behind  the  house  there  " 
(Lowton  referred  to  the  majestic  pines)  "  'ith  their 
tops  all  full  of  snow,  a-bowin'  and  a-bendin' — by 
gosh,  ever'  time  the  wind  comes  up,  an'  it  always  is 
up,  I  kin  jest  hear  'em  snap!  Then  crash!  '11  go 
one  off  in  the  woods  som'ers,  and  me  expectin'  ever' 
night  that  one'll  slosh  down  onto  the  house  and  cut 
our  beds  right  clean  in  two.  How'd  you  like  a 
four- foot  pine  fallin'  on  your  bed?  Where's  your 
old  Nature  then?  I  swear  to  gosh  hang  I  won't 
stay  here  another  winter  like  last — yes,  sir,  I  swear 
to  gosh  hang.  You  wait  a  minnit,  an'  I'll  show 
you  somethin'." 

[257] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  He  says  the  same  thing  every  year,"  observed 
Amy.  "  But  he  always  stays." 

"  Look  a'  here,"  said  Lowton,  coming  back. 
"  You  wanto  see  what  sort  of  winters  we  get  here  ? 
That  there's  a  calendar  for  March,  an'  I  put  down 
every  day  right  there  what  happened.  You  look 
at  that,  an'  then  you  talk  about  Nature." 

"  You  had  troubles  of  your  own,  sure  enough !  " 
said  Bradford.  "  Look,  Miss  Power."  And  he 
showed  her  Lowton's  curiosity  of  annotation. 
Each  day  had  its  comment. 

March  4. — snow 
"       5. — snow 
"        6. — set  one  hen 
"       7. — snow 
"        8. — rain  and  snow 
"        9. — perfectly  lovely 
"     10.— set  hen 
"      11. — snow  and  rain 
"      12. — heavens  will  it  ever  quit 
"     13.— rain 

"     14. — one   hen    off   spoiled    thirteen    eggs 
drat  her 
[258] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

March  15. — rain 
"        16. — fair  day 
"        17.— fair  day. 
"        18. — bad  cold  and  snow  oh  well 

*'  Thank  you,"  said  Bradford,  choking.  He 
returned  the  calendar  to  Lowton  and  fled  behind 
the  house.  "  Christian  resignation ! "  he  pro- 
claimed to  Amy.  "  Christian  resignation !  It 
ought  to  be  framed ! "  And  that  final  heart- 
broken "  oh  well  "  made  even  Amy  laugh. 

Sunday  morning  was  consecrated  to  Murdoch. 
The  pickle-maker  led  Bradford  everywhere,  expa- 
tiating in  the  pride  of  ownership.  He  exhibited 
horses  and  a  cow,  chickens  and  miniature  falls, 
pigeons  and  a  distant  hill  all  purple  in  the  haze, 
the  river  and  the  bridges,  all  the  rooms  in  the  house, 
and  a  new  wagon-brake  of  his  own  invention; 
and  he  filled  in  with  praises  of  the  pines.  Mur- 
doch revelled  in  his  pines ;  he  gloated  over  the  huge 
ones,  telling  fabulous  stories  of  their  height  and 
age,  and  mourned  like  Damon  over  some  ancient 
Pythias  he  found  lying  prostrated  by  the  wind. 
There  was  a  real  religious  fervor  in  the  man;  he 
[259] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

might  have  been  a  Druid  at  his  worship,  save  for 
the  keen  proprietary  interest  that  intensified  his 
happiness.  He  kept  Bradford  busy  with  his  un- 
conscious demands  for  exclamation ;  and  Bradford 
exclaimed  with  such  fineness  and  propriety  of  feel- 
ing that  the  pickle-maker  heard  him  affection- 
ately. 

Dinner  was  served  in  the  largest  room  of  the 
house,  a  room  whose  wide  south  windows  looked 
upon  the  lawn  and  the  river  running  below.  Mur- 
doch supplied  the  talk.  In  a  pause  of  it  Bradford 
let  his  eyes  wander  idly  toward  the  stream.  It 
flowed  dark  against  the  green ;  as  he  saw  it  he  was 
reminded  suddenly  of  the  river  he  had  visioned  in 
the  church,  the  river  which  sprang  out  of  nothing 
and  divided  him  from  Amy.  But  a  small  figure 
appeared  upon  the  bank,  before  which  symbolism 
fled.  It  was  Lowton's  youngest  grandchild, 
dressed  in  strapped  blue  overalls,  laboriously  pick- 
ing daisies.  He  somehow  made  Bradford  aware 
that  the  sun  was  full  upon  the  slope,  and  the  air 
quiet  and  warm,  and  the  surroundings  not  of  a  sort 
to  encourage  allegory.  Much  of  the  day,  Brad- 
ford reflected,  had  been  quite  wasted,  for  he  had 
[260] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

got  hardly  a  glimpse  of  Amy  since  breakfast-time. 
He  stole  a  glance  at  her  small  head,  with  the  dark- 
brown  hair  drawn  to  some  sort  of  picturesque  knot 
upon  it.  He  drew  a  long  breath  with  the  ecstasy 
of  his  delight  in  the  simple  line  of  her  cheek  and 
throat,  outlined  against  the  window.  Then,  as 
she  turned  her  eyes  toward  him,  he  let  his  wander 
quickly  away  toward  the  river  again.  The  sun 
was  as  full,  and  warm,  and  pleasant,  and  sleepy, 
as  before;  but  Bradford's  chair  clattered  on  the 
floor  as  he  sprang  up  and  rushed  to  the  door. 

"  What  is  it?  "  the  other  two  cried  together. 

"  The  kid's  in  the  river !  "  shouted  Bradford. 
In  an  instant  he  was  running  hard  across  the  lawn, 
with  no  time  for  anything  but  the  comforting  real- 
ization that  he  had  acted  rapidly.  He  reached  the 
spot.  Ten  yards  down  the  stream  the  baby's  face 
was  white  on  the  water.  The  swift  sullenness 
of  the  current  might  have  easily  daunted  him,  but 
it  did  not.  He  ran  along  the  bank,  dived  in,  and 
had  the  child  in  his  grasp  before  he  realized  the 
power  of  the  water.  It  was  fed  by  the  snows,  and 
its  chill  was  so  instant  that  he  cried  out.  It  caught 
at  his  heart  and  cramped  his  muscles.  He  felt  it 
[261] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

binding  his  chest  as  rigid  as  an  iron  bar,  and  when 
he  tried  to  take  a  stroke  his  legs  were  powerless 
and  disobedient.  He  half-released  the  child,  vainly 
feeling  for  the  bottom;  then  his  fingers  tightened 
again.  By  God,  with  her  looking  on,  he  would 
die  game!  They  were  setting  out  into  the  middle 
now ;  he  could  not  tell  whether  he  had  been  in  that 
frightful  cold  ten  seconds  or  ten  minutes,  but  he 
felt  that  his  chances  were  going  with  his  strength, 
and  wondered  how  soon  he  should  begin  to  choke, 
and  know  that  the  end  was  coining.  Then — they 
were  at  the  lower  bridge,  and  Murdoch,  leaning 
away  down,  clutched  him  and  held  on.  Bradford 
passed  over  the  boy,  whom  Murdoch  lifted  with  his 
free  hand.  The  next  instant  they  were  both  safely 
on  the  bridge.  The  dripping  baby  burst  into  a 
monstrous  wail. 

"  I — want — my — f 'owers,"  he  said.  Surely 
enough,  the  daisies  were  careering  down  the  stream. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  lucky  thing  for  that  kid  you 
saw  him  go  in,"  cried  Murdoch,  heartily.  "  He 
might  have  been  drowned,  like  as  not.  Pity  you've 
spoiled  your  clothes,  though." 

"  I've  got  another  suit  at  the  house,"  answered 
[262] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF    AMY 

Bradford,  blushing  shamefacedly,  as  he  estimated 
the  distance  from  the  bridge  to  the  spot  where  the 
child  had  fallen  in.  It  was  perhaps  forty  yards. 
The  size  of  the  river  seemed  to  diminish  as  he 
stared  at  it. 

When  Bradford  came  downstairs  again  he  had 
recovered  his  equanimity.  The  pickle-maker  had 
disappeared  somewhere.  Amy  was  sitting  on  the 
piazza,  gazing  at  the  river  where  it  rippled  in  the 
sun.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  her. 
She  was  wearing  gray  again.  Oh,  color  of  the 
silver  shining  moss,  of  hills  at  sundown,  and  of 
Amy's  eyes !  Her  breast  rose  and  fell.  The  curl- 
ing tendrils  of  her  hair  clung  dark  against  her 
neck's  whiteness.  The  roundness  of  her  figure  was 
as  delicately  imperious  as  the  challenge  of  the 
spring.  She  was  a  girl-woman — "  the  sweetest 
thing  God  ever  made." 

When  a  boy  loves  a  woman,  to  him  is  given  to 
see  in  her  only  what  he  wishes  there.  Slowly  the 
man  learns  that  what  is  written  is  written.  Brad- 
ford stared  at  her  long;  he  observed  the  steady, 
firm  line  of  the  chin,  the  little  determined,  down- 
ward droop  of  the  mouth,  the  clear,  high  arching 
[263] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

of  the  eyebrows,  and  all  those  signs  which  had  whis- 
pered so  truly  to  the  rector — "  we  are  strong !  " 
To  Bradford  they  whispered  only,  "  We  are 
sweet !  "  Had  he  heard  their  other  message — 
well,  what  then?  Nothing  then.  •  He  was  in  love, 
and  it  would  have  whistled  down  the  wind. 

He  stepped  forward.  "  Thinking,  Miss  Pow- 
er? " 

She  sprang  up,  her  face  alight,  and  all  the  deli- 
cate hardness  gone.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Bradford !  It  was 
brave  of  you !  " 

"  It  was  really  nothing  at  all.  Your  uncle  did 
most  of  it." 

"  My  uncle !     He  would  have  been  too  late." 

"  At  least  you  can  guess  that  I  like  to  hear  you 
say  so." 

"  Anyone  would  say  so,  Mr.  Bradford.  You 
thought  just  what  to  do.  If  you  had  not — think 
what  might  have  happened !  " 

He  sat  down  by  her  in  silence,  thinking  of  his 
thoughts  in  that  moment  when  he  had  exagger- 
atedly given  himself  up  for  lost.  He  said  nothing 
of  these  to  her ;  but  in  a  moment  he  asked,  "  Will 
you  come  for  a  walk?  " 

[264] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  know  a  beautiful  place — we  saw  it  this  morn- 
ing. You  ought  to  know  it,  too,  I  should  think; 
at  least  your  uncle  called  it  Amy's  Bower.  Shall 
we  go  there?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  She  did  not  quite  know  what 
she  was  saying  or  doing  or  feeling.  A  new  sense 
had  come  over  her  with  a  great  sweep,  an  emotion 
like  the  rush  of  the  river,  bearing  her  on  and  on 
and  on.  She  did  not  wish  to  resist.  She  gave 
herself  up  to  it,  as  confidently,  as  happily,  as  only 
strong  natures  can  yield.  The  ineffable  delight 
of  surrender  was  in  her  soul.  They  reached  the 
Bower  almost  in  silence;  only  the  crying  of  the 
blue- jays  in  the  woods  disturbed  their  thoughts. 

The  Bower  was  a  spot  beside  one  of  the  two 
brooks  which  fed  the  river.  Leaf-bearing  trees, 
the  only  group  among  the  pines,  watched  there 
beside  a  pool,  and  the  sunshine  lay  lazily  upon  the 
grass  just  beyond  their  shade.  Bradford  spread 
a  shawl  for  her  carefully,  and  she  sat  down,  right 
by  the  edge  of  the  water,  where,  he  told  her,  she 
might  look  in,  like  Narcissus,  until  she  fell  in  love 
with  her  own  shadow  there.  But  she  looked  up  at 
[265] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

him  instead,  and  he  forgot  Narcissus,  and  lay 
down  beside  her  on  a  corner  of  the  shawl.  The 
sun  gleamed. 

"  It's  almost  June,"  she  ventured,  slowly. 

"  Almost."  He  wondered — what  was  she  think- 
ing now? 

"  I  like  this  spot  so  much,  they  named  it  for  me." 

"  It  is  beautiful."  Would  she  like  it  still,  if  he 
asked  her — asked  her 

"  Did  you  know  this  brook  had  an  Indian 
name?  "  she  questioned,  dreamily. 

"  No.    What  is  it?  "    Am  I  really  afraid? 

"  Tu-see-alusa." 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  Oh,  take  your  cour- 
age in  both  hands,  faintheart! 

"  The  stream  of  white  water." 

"  I  can  see  why  they  named  it  that."  She  does 
not  care  at  all  for  me ;  she  is  not  thinking  of  me ; 
she  is  thinking  only  of  the  hateful  woods  and  the 
brook ! 

"  Yes ;  it  is  foamy  up  above.  But  it  is  very 
still  just  here." 

"  As  still  as  your  eyes — almost."  Now  will  she 
understand  me? 

[266] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

Silence. 

"  Amy !  " 

Silence. 

"  Amy,  don't  you  know  that  I  love  you?  "  Oh, 
fool,  fool,  he  thought,  to  throw  away  even  hope ! 

"  You  really — love  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Amy,  Amy,  Amy !  " 

"  I  am  very — glad,  dear."  Still  she  sat  with  her 
face  averted,  looking  into  the  water ;  and  her  voice 
was  so  low  that  he  feared  he  was  dreaming,  till 
he,  too,  looking  into  the  water,  and  saw  that  she  was 
crying  silently.  Then,  with  a  surge  of  his  heart, 
he  took  her  in  his  arms,  where  he  had  longed  to 
hold  her,  and  kissed  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips, 
as  he  had  longed  to  kiss  her.  And  she  smiled  at 
him  through  her  tears,  and  thanked  God. 

Shall  we  never  be  done  with  hurrying  to  our 
joy,  though  we  know  so  sorrowfully  well  how  soon 
we  must  hurry  away  from  it?  Or  are  we  wiser 
than  we  know,  and  is  delay  so  fatal  to  the  capture 
of  the  rainbow's  gold? 

"  Oh,  little  girl !  " 

She  drew  herself  from  him  gently  and  sat  up 
straight,  the  tears  running  down  her  face,  and  her 
[267] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

eyes  still  smiling  through.  "  I  don't  know  why 
I  am  so  foolish,"  she  told  him,  brokenly,  "  un- 
less because  I  am — so  very  happy,  dear!  Are 
you?" 

Was  Bradford? 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I  thought  you  didn't  care — 
you  never  told  me !  " 

He  had  never  told  her!  Had  his  eyes,  his  lips 
even,  ever  told  her  of  anything  else? 

"  But  I  thought — men  always  said  those  things 
to  girls." 

Not  as  he  had  said  them.  Men  did  not  look  at 
girls  as  he  had  looked  at  her. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  teach  me  to  tell  you  I  love 
you  so!  It  is  all  shut  up  here."  She  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  bosom  while  it  rose  and  fell.  "  I 
can't  speak.  I  thought  that  you  must  think  I 
hated  you — or  something — because  I  was  so  dumb, 
and  yet  I  couldn't  say  anything  different.  Shall 
I  learn  some  day  to  tell  you — how  I  love  you  ?  " 
She  shook  with  her  vehemence  till  Bradford  was 
amazed.  He  soothed  her,  and  whispered  to  her, 
till  she  grew  calmer  by  and  by.  "  I  have  never 
talked  to  anyone,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  how. 
[  268  ] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

Why,  I  never  had  anything  to  say,  till  you  came, 
dear!  You  are  so  clever — can  you  teach  me  a 
little?  I  feel — I  feel  as  if  there  had  been  some- 
thing in  my  heart  that  cried,  cried,  and  nobody 
came;  and  now  you've  come.  Ah,  dear,  I'm  glad 
you've  come !  " 

He  teach  her  a  little?  He  clever?  He  was  not 
clever  to-day,  nor  was  he  thinking  of  himself.  He 
was  humble  and  afraid.  Already  he  loved  her  a 
thousand  times  more  than  he  had  dreamed  before ; 
and — was  it  for  that  reason  he  was  afraid? 

"  You  are  so  good  to  love  me ! "  she  told  him. 
He  good?  He  took  her  hands  almost  timidly,  and 
showed  her  how  white  they  were  against  his  own. 
And  that  was  her  goodness  and  his.  No;  he  was 
base,  ill-tempered,  ungenerous — so  he  was  running 
on  to  enumerate  all  the  bad  qualities  in  the  list  ex- 
cept— ah,  that  exception  we  all  make ! — except  the 
one  he  sometimes  feared,  when  she  drew  her  hands 
away,  and  laid  her  fingers  lightly  on  his  lips. 

"  Hush,  dear !  "  she  asked.     "  I  can't  hear  you 

speak  so.     You  must  hush.     You  are  brave  and 

strong  and  true.     Oh,  7  know.     I  know  what  you 

have   done.     Don't   you    remember  the   very   first 

[269] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

time  I  ever  saw  you — when  you  sang  to  those  poor 
people  on  the  train?  Was  that  ungenerous,  and 
base,  and  ill-tempered?  I  pitied  them  all  just  as 
you  did,  but  what  could  I  do  ?  I  was  too  weak  even 
to  help  with  the  hurt  ones;  I  only  sat  there  and 
cried,  till  you  began  to  sing,  and  then  somehow  I 
felt,  even  when  I  could  hardly  hear  you  for  the 
noises,  that  someone  was  there,  strong  and  brave 
and  steady,  and  things  couldn't  go  all  wrong." 

"  But,   sweetheart.      It    isn't   that   I   mean.      I 

don't  think  I'm  a  coward.     But He  paused, 

unable  to  find  words,  and  she  interrupted  him. 

"  A  coward  ?  Dear,  do  you  remember  a  night 
when  you  made  a  speech  to  the  men  out  at  the  col- 
lege, and  told  them  what  was  right,  though  you 
knew  they  would  hate  you  for  it  ?  I  think — I  think 
that  I  began — ought  I  not  to  tell  you  that?  And 
to-day,  when  you  jumped  in  to  get  that  little  boy — 
do  you  think  it  was  selfish  and  cowardly  of  you — 
do  you  know  that  I  should  have  hated  him  always  if 
you  had  been  hurt  ? — do  you  think  it  was  selfish  and 
cowardly  of  you  to  do  that?  No,  dear;  you  must 
just  hush,  please !  " 

Bradford  heard  her.  There  were  many  things  he 
[270] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF    AMY 

might  have  told  her  then.  Reproach  him  who  can 
because  he  was  silent.  Alas,  instead  of  remaining 
humble  and  afraid,  he  felt  as  he  always  felt  when  he 
was  praised,  and  momentarily  took  her  words  for 
truth — poor  young  hero,  who  had  so  much  to  fight 
against  that  one  can  hardly  deny  him  admiration 
even  for  the  broken,  unfinished  effort  he  had  made  an 
instant  before. 

They  sat  there  while  the  sun  dropped  and  dipped, 
and  the  gray  twilight  crept  slowly  out  of  the  woods 
and  sprang  on  them  suddenly;  and  Bradford  lis- 
tened to  what  not  many  of  us  are  allowed  to  hear, 
and  saw  what  few  of  us  ever  see.  It  is  true  that, 
when  all  is  said,  mankind  is  still  pretty  close  to  nat- 
ure. There  are  few  men  and  not  many  more  women 
who  will  not  stop  to  watch  a  bud  unfolding  to  a 
flower.  But  to  Bradford  was  given  to  watch  the 
heart  of  a  girl  unfolding  to  the  flower  of  woman- 
hood. The  sight  is  rare.  Buds  open  naturally, 
but  we  have  civilized  the  girls,  until  such  as  Amy 
do  not,  in  the  old  simile,  grow  on  every  bush.  She 
spoke  to  Bradford  as  freely  as  she  thought — more 
freely  than  she  had  ever  thought  before.  She  did 
not  know  of  the  proverb  that  a  woman  should  be 
[271] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

kissed,  but  a  man  crossed.      She  knew  only  that  she 
had  discovered  love. 

"  Is  it  evening?  Why,  it  can't  be  evening!  Well, 
come,  Francis,  and  we  will  tell  uncle." 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  had  better,  to-night  ?  " 
"  He  would  see  it  anyway !  "  she  laughed.  But 
as  they  walked  to  the  house,  Bradford  was  not  so 
confident  as  she.  Amy  was,  presumably,  heiress  to 
millions,  and  he  had  a  little  more  than  three  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year.  Would  Murdoch  approve  of 
him  ?  Bradford  reflected  hopefully  that  the  pickle- 
maker  was  a  "  self-made  "  man ;  and  then  uneasily 
that  he  had  made  himself  very  vigorous  and  direct. 
The  blood  came  to  the  boy's  face  as  he  thought  what 
Murdoch  might  say.  But  perhaps  he  would  only 
tell  them  to  wait.  Bradford  scarcely  feared  more, 
certainly  hoped  no  more  than  this.  They  two  came 
up  the  lawn,  in  the  Sunday  evening  peace  which 
seems  to  lie  even  upon  the  open  country.  On  the 
piazza  was  Murdoch,  smoking  and  waiting  for  them. 
Bradford  never  in  his  life  forgot  the  sheen  of  the 
sun  in  the  low  windows  as  they  slowly  approached. 
How  should  he  begin?  In  what  words  should  he 
frame  his  news  ?  How  account  for  his  precipitation  ? 
[272] 


THE     AWAKENING     OF     AMY 

He  had  known  Amy  scarcely  eight  months  alto- 
gether. Would  Murdoch  grow  angry 

Amy's  hand  slipped  into  his.  "  Uncle — you  see 
I  have  promised  to  marry  Mr.  Bradford." 

"Hey?  What?"  The  pickle-maker  got  up 
hastily. 

"  We  love  each  other,"  she  said,  proudly  and  sim- 
ply, looking  up  at  Bradford.  Murdoch  stared  into 
his  eyes  till  Bradford  almost  winced.  Into  what 
depths  of  his  nature  did  the  older  man  see?  Or 
did  he  see  only  the  handsome  face,  the  open  look 
returning  his.  He  held  out  a  hand  to  each. 

"  That's  good  hearing,"  he  cried,  enthusiastical- 
ly. "  By  the  Lord  Harry,  but  that's  good  hear- 
ing!" 


[273] 


Chapter  Fifteen 

MARRIAGE 

The  engagement  was  received  with  pretty  general 
acclamations,  and  not  many  seriously  objected  to 
the  announcement  of  their  marriage  for  the  com- 
ing August.  There  was  no  reason  why  they 
should  wait.  Amy  made  no  pretence  of  coquetry. 
She  was  only  twenty,  but  her  mother  had  married 
as  young,  and  so  had  Bradford's,  which  seemed  suf- 
ficient. And  Bradford  had  certainly  no  wish  to 
wait ;  he  was  in  love.  The  Barton  case  turned  out 
fortunately,  being  won  on  the  lines  of  attack  he 
had  laid  down,  and  the  Trinity  promptly  advanced 
his  salary.  With  one  thing  and  another,  Bradford 
had  forty-five  hundred  dollars  a  year.  Could  Amy 
live  on  forty -five  hundred  dollars  a  year?  She  could, 
she  said,  but  she  saw  no  necessity  for  doing  so,  nor 
did  her  uncle.  He  wished  to  continue  his  present 
policy  of'  giving  her  all  she  wanted  and  a  little 
more. 

"  You  know,  Francis,"  she  urged,  "  that  I  would 
[274] 


MARRIAGE 

live  anywhere  with  you,  even  in  a  hut  " — and  Amy 
meant  her  words,  though  her  ideas  of  a  hut  were 
primitive — "  but  why  should  we  not  live  with 
Uncle?  "  That  made  decision  easy,  and  a  speedy 
marriage  wholly  desirable.  It  would  certainly  be  a 
shame  to  leave  Murdoch  in  loneliness.  So  it  ap- 
peared that  Amy's  life  was  outwardly  to  undergo 
little  change,  and  Bradford  was  to  take  up  the  bur- 
den of  living  with  the  pickle-maker,  a  burden  he  had 
shuddered  at  in  his  imagination  eight  months  be- 
fore. The  enormous  lithographs,  and  the  quota- 
tions of  the  Shakespeare  brand,  still  ornamented 
not  only  the  Carfax  billboards,  but  the  whole  coun- 
try, and  accessible  parts  of  Europe,  as  the  business 
spread;  but  Bradford  looked  at  them  with  more 
amusement  and  less  asperity.  He  did  not  mind 
living  with  Murdoch  now.  Indeed,  he  had  com- 
pletely forgotten  that  inward  vision  of  the  thin- 
chested  wife  and  the  intolerable  offspring. 

Miss  Craven,  her  eyes  full  of  laughter,  shook 
Amy  gently.  "  You  promised  to  tell  me,  you 
know,  after  you  told  him,"  she  reminded.  "  Now, 
what  did  you  say  to  him,  Amy  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  that  I  loved  him  very  much,"  an- 
[275] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

swered  Amy,  tranquilly.  "  And  so  I  do.  You 
wouldn't  have  me  marry  him  otherwise  ?  " 

"  Heaven  send  you  told  it  to  him  more  enthusi- 
astically than  that,  or  he'd  never  believe  you ;  he'd 
go  off  and  commit  suicide,"  cried  Miss  Craven. 

"  I  think  he  believes  it,  though." 

Miss  Craven  looked  her  over  critically.  "  What 
has  come  to  you,  my  dear?  You  are  a  different 
woman  from  the  one  I  made  the  acquaintance  of 
last  fall.  Has  he  done  it?  And  what  has  he 
done?" 

"  Loved  me,"  said  Amy,  tranquilly  again.  She 
returned  Marion's  look,  and  the  older  woman  threw 
her  arms  around  her  neck,  and  kissed  her. 

"  Dear,"  she  whispered,  softly,  "  he  will  be  very 
happy.  And  so  will  you."  Miss  Craven's  eyes 
were  wet. 

Kate  gave  Bradford  the  solid  grip  of  friendship. 
"  I  think  you're  lucky,  old  fellow.  A  man  needs  a 
woman  to  keep  him  up  to  the  mark."  He  did  not 
joke  at  all.  But  then  he  had  been  serious  all  win- 
ter— almost  as  serious  as  Slim.  He  was  to  take  his 
degree  in  June,  and  Shedsy  said  it  would  be  ten 
below  zero,  unless  Kate  cheered  up  a  bit.  Shedsy's 
[276] 


MARRIAGE 

jocosity  was,  however,  a  trifle  forced.  The  shadow 
of  Woman  fell  across  the  Residuum,  and  made  him 
shiver.  The  horse-haired  boarding-houses,  with 
their  loneliness,  seemed  perilously  near.  He  ad- 
mitted, when  Bradford  took  him  to  call  on  Amy, 
that  she  was  charming,  and  he  kept  Bradford  from 
perceiving  any  undertone  of  sorrow  in  his  congrat- 
ulations, but  he  lamented  afresh  to  Slim.  "  I  sup- 
pose," he  ended,  "  that  it  multiplies  their  happi- 
ness, and  it  only  subtracts  a  little  from  mine.  I 
suppose  I'm  a  d-dog  in  the  manger.  B-but  I've 
always  s-sympathized  a  little  with  that  d-dog. 
Maybe  he  was  only  c-cross  because  there  was  n-noth- 
ing  at  all  for  him  to  eat.  By  and  by  he  went  away, 
and  the  r-rest  got  what  they  wanted,  but  what  b-be- 
came  of  him?  Oh,  he  only  starved  to  d-death  in 
some  c-corner,  I  suppose." 

"  How  did  you  like  her?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  m-me ;  before  any  woman,  m-my 
flow  of  spirits  dries  up ;  I  s-sit  quiet,  or  else  I 
m-murmur,  *  Yes,  ma'am  '  and  '  No,  ma'am,'  with  all 
the  exhilaration  of  an  automatic  d-doll.  B-but  she 
seemed  to  be  as  b-bad  off  as  I  was,  so  I  felt  better, 
and  we  really  h-heard  each  other's  voices  once  or 
[277] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

t-twice  before  I  left.  I  Hiked  her.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you've  g-got  many  of  her  sort  d-down  at  your 
emporium  of  1-learning,  old  man." 

Amy's  comment  on  that  visit  had  been  singularly 
like  Shedsy's  own.  "  I  didn't  think  he  was  unso- 
ciable, dear,"  she  said.  "  He  was  shy,  but  then  so 
am  I  with  everybody  but —  She  stopped. 

"  With  everybody  but  who?  "  asked  Bradford,  in 
happy  jealousy. 

"  You  know  who."  Yes,  he  knew ;  in  those  golden 
days  his  betrothed  wore  her  heart  upon  her  sleeve 
for  him. 

Amid  the  general  approval,  there  was  one  man 
who  in  his  heart  mourned  over  the  engagement,  and 
cursed  himself  for  doing  so.  Only  a  coward,  he 
told  himself,  cried  over  spilt  milk;  and  only  worse 
than  a  coward  refused  to  take  an  honest  beating  like 
a  man.  Yet  he  knew  himself  a  shade  more  brusque, 
a  shade  more  sardonic  than  before.  The  women  of 
his  parish  were  more  in  love  with  Clarges  than  ever. 
All  he  could  do  was  to  confine  expression  of  his 
thoughts  and  feelings  to  the  four  walls  of  his  room. 
These  latter  might  have  heard  him  cry  out  some- 
times, and  seen  him  torture  himself  as  vainly  and 
[278] 


MARRIAGE 

unsparingly  as  a  monk  of  La  Chartreuse ;  then  robe 
himself  and  go  down  to  lead  his  flock  to  God.  But 
they  could  hear  and  see  quite  safely ;  had  they  told, 
who  would  have  believed?  What?  the  rector  of 
St.  Hilda's,  who  sat  high  and  lay  soft,  to  humble 
himself  in  the  night-watches?  What?  Clarges  of 
'89,  who  had  played  unmoved  through  the  bitterest 
crises  of  four  hard-fought  seasons,  and  heard  over 
and  over  the  long  yell  that  ended  in  his  name ; 
Clarges  of  '89,  who  had  been  twice  suspended,  and 
still  held  the  university  record  in  the  broad  jump — 
Clarges  of  '89  to  be  a  mediaeval  fool?  What? 
Father  Clarges,  who  met  with  a  calm  forehead  the 
storm  of  adulation  that  swept  up  to  him  from  the 
wives,  sisters,  daughters,  of  his  church,  and  beat 
it  back — Father  Clarges  disturb  his  rest  for  the 
welfare  of  a  snippet  of  a  girl?  What?  That 
Clarges,  the  most  open  champion  of  the  principle 
that  an  Episcopalian  congregation  is  a  business 
corporation,  not  a  religious  body ;  the  head  and 
front  of  the  pernicious  doctrine  which  was  commer- 
cializing the  church — that  Clarges  bow  contritely 
and  repent  with  blood  and  tears  before  his  God? 
Go  to ;  are  we  all  fools  ?  Doubt  that  the  stars 
[279] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

are  fire,  but  never  doubt  we  know  our  respective 
Clarges. 

Still,  whether  the  walls  heard  and  saw  correctly 
or  not,  whether  their  gossip  should  or  should  not 
have  been  believed,  it  is  true  that  the  summer  was 
a  hard  one  for  Clarges,  and  he  grew  a  little  thinner 
in  the  heat.  Had  it  not  been  for  a  strike  among 
the  street-car  men  during  July,  he  would  probably 
have  given  up  his  pastorate  and  gone  to  Europe 
for  a  while.  But  he  was  drawn  into  the  settlement 
of  that  strike,  and,  after  much  backing  and  filling 
among  the  powers  of  both  sides,  succeeded  in  the 
appointment  of  a  board  of  arbitration  to  settle  it. 
His  efforts  elicited  some  reluctant  admiration,  and  a 
great  deal  of  spirited  condemnation  from  all  quar- 
ters. Murdoch,  in  common  with  all  other  successful 
men,  had  almost  a  religious  horror  of  arbitration, 

which   he    characterized   as    "  d d    meddling." 

Still,  if  arbitration  were  to  succeed,  he  admitted 
that  Clarges  was  cut  out  for  its  operator.  And  he 
gave  his  unqualified  respect  to  a  man  who,  un- 
armed, stood  off  a  mob  of  three  or  four  hundred 
workmen  and  toughs,  who  were  attempting  to  as- 
sault a  car.  That  kind  of  personality  Murdoch 
[280] 


MARRIAGE 

could  both  understand  and  approve  of.  When  the 
strike  was  over  August  had  nearly  come,  and  the 
wedding  was  close  at  hand.  Clarges  had  been 
asked  to  officiate,  and  to  retreat  was  apparently  out 
of  the  question.  Therefore  he  stayed  on. 

Amy  had  not  wished  Clarges  to  marry  them. 
"  He  doesn't  like  you,  Francis,"  she  said.  "  He  is 
unfair.  I  should  rather  have  someone  else."  But 
Bradford  drew  her  to  his  way  of  thinking.  "  We 
really  ought  to  ask  him,  dear,"  he  told  her.  "  It 
would  be  almost  an  insult  not  to,  since  he  is  the 
rector  of  your  church,  and  is  known  to  be  a  friend 
of  your  uncle's.  As  for  what  he  thinks  about  me, 
that's  hardly  the  question,  is  it?  It  doesn't  bother 
me,  Amy.  There  is  only  one  like  or  dislike  that  I 
care  about,  lady  mine."  What  Bradford  meant 
was,  that  having  won  Amy,  he  felt  at  least  cordial 
toward  a  man  whom  he  could  not  help  thinking  a 
discomfited  rival.  Moreover,  it  is  possible  that  he 
may  have  desired  to  exult  a  little. 

During  his  engagement,  Bradford  learned  that 

after  all  he  was  not  to  marry  an  heiress,  as  he  had 

supposed.     The  information  did  not  annoy  him  in 

the  least ;  in  fact,  he  wasted  very  little  thought  on 

[281] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

it.  He  was  not  marrying  Amy  for  her  money ;  he 
was  neither  a  fortune-hunter  nor  a  lover  of  ostenta- 
tion. Perhaps,  if  Amy  had  had  no  money  at  all, 
he  might  have  tried  not  to  fall  in  love  with  her; 
and  perhaps,  again,  he  might  not  have  succeeded 
in  his  attempt.  It  was  Murdoch  who  suggested 
that  Bradford  should  be  told  of  the  pending  gift  to 
Carfax  College.  For  one  reason,  Murdoch  was  so 
honest  a  man  that  he  disliked  even  the  semblance  of 
deceit  toward  Bradford,  in  money  matters  or  in  any 
other  respect ;  and  for  another,  he  was  in  a  way  so 
vain  a  man  that  he  eagerly  desired  all  who  could 
safely  do  so  to  know  his  secret.  If  he  might  not 
yet  inform  the  world  of  his  success,  he  might  still 
gather  a  few  witnesses  who  could  testify  in  the 
future.  Amy  was  perfectly  willing  that  Bradford 
should  be  told.  It  all  seemed  to  Amy  a  detail.  She 
mentioned  it  to  Bradford  in  the  pause  of  a  conver- 
sation on  matters  which  half  the  world  knows  al- 
ready and  the  other  half  will  never  understand. 

"  Uncle  Jack  means  to  give  a  great  deal  of  money 
to  Carfax  College,  Francis — did  you  know  that?  " 

"  So  I  have  heard  rumored.     He's  made  up  his 
mind,  has  he?  " 

[282] 


MARRIAGE 

"  Yes.    He  is  going  to  give  ten  million  dollars." 

Bradford's  eyes  widened.  "  Impossible !  Ten 
million !  "  he  repeated,  staggered. 

She  nodded.  "  Yes.  Ten  million.  But  he  is 
going  to  wait  a  little  before  he  gives  it." 

Bradford  smiled,  thinking  he  understood.  "  Go- 
ing to  wait  till  he  makes  it,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  He  has  it ;  he  could  give  it  right  away. 
He  had  intended  to  give  it  this  summer,  but  he 
thought  it  was  better  to  wait  a  year." 

"Why  should  he  wait — if  he  really  wants  to  give 
it?  The  amount  seems  impossible  to  me,  though." 

Amy  was  a  little  surprised.  "  Why,  don't  you 
see,"  she  said,  "  if  he  gave  the  money  now,  Dr. 
Craven  would  have  to  resign,  and  uncle  thought  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  force  him  out  before  he  was 
ready  to  go." 

"  I  call  it  rather  cheap  of  the  old  Doctor  to  hang 
on,  when  he  knows  what  will  happen  to  the  college 
as  soon  as  he  leaves." 

"  Oh,  he  doesn't  know,  Francis.  That  is  why 
Uncle  Jack  hasn't  told  anyone — so  that  Dr.  Craven 
will  not  find  out.  Nobody  knows  but  the  lawyers 
and  you  and  I." 

[283] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  How  long  did  you  say  Murdoch  had  been 
thinking  of  this  ?  " 

"  Uncle  Jack  ?  A  long  time.  Six  months,  any- 
way. It  was  before  I  knew — " 

"  Knew  what,  sweetheart  Amy  ?  " 

"  Knew  why  I  was  so  happy,  dear." 

" Amy ! " 

"  That  is — I  think  I  knew,  but  I  was  afraid." 

"  But,  little  girl !  "  The  stupendous  fact  which 
Bradford  had  just  learned  was  working  in  his  brain. 
"  Do  you  actually  mean  to  tell  me  that  your  uncle 
can  put  his  hands  on  ten  million  dollars  and  turn  it 
over  to  Carfax — to  anybody — and  have  enough 
left  to  run  his  business?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  It's  unbelievable !  But  the  other  is  more  un- 
believable still — that  ten  million  should  wait  till 
that  old  man  gets  ready  to  resign !  " 

"Why  shouldn't  it  wait,  dear?  If  Dr.  Craven 
were  turned  out,  think  how  cruel  it  would  be !  He 
is  an  old  man,  and  he  has  been  with  the  college  all 
his  life.  Oh,  it  would  be  very  nasty  of  Uncle  Jack 
—wouldn't  it?" 

"  Amy,"  demanded  Bradford,  acutely,  "  who 
[284] 


MARRIAGE 

thought  of  holding  up  this  gift — of  waiting  ?  Was 
it  your  uncle  or  was  it  you  ?  " 

"  I  spoke  of  it,  I  think.  But,  of  course,  Uncle 
Jack  was  glad  to  wait,  as  soon  as  he  thought  of  it." 
Amy  believed  this  entirely. 

"  Little  girl,"  said  Bradford,  kissing  her,  with  a 
touch  of  his  former  awe,  "  do  you  think  you  can 
lift  me  to  your  skies,  or  shall  I  only  drag  you 
down  ?  "  She  looked  into  his  eyes  mutely ;  then 
she  smiled.  Bradford  kissed  her  again  for  that 
smile.  The  pathos  and  the  obvious  comedy  of  the 
whole  situation  touched  Bradford's  instinct  for  the 
dramatic  very  keenly.  What  a  situation,  he 
thought! — what  possibilities  for  a  story!  He 
chuckled  at  a  vision  of  Murdoch  and  Craven  to- 
gether at  a  trustees'  meeting :  the  pickle-maker  esti- 
mating Craven's  age,  speculating  like  a  life-insur- 
ance agent,  and  trying  not  to  hint  at  the  propriety 
of  resignation  in  the  aged ;  Dr.  Craven  stately,  ab- 
sent-minded, quite  unconscious  of  the  sword  sus- 
pended over  him.  The  next  time  Bradford  saw 
Dr.  Craven,  he  looked  at  him  with  renewed  interest, 
and  even  with  tenderness.  Murdoch's  chances  were 
good,  apparently.  The  President  was  not  wear- 
[285] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

ing  his  years  lightly  like  a  flower.  He  stooped ;  the 
kindly  eyes  behind  the  glasses  were  dim ;  he  hesitated 
a  trifle  in  his  speech.  The  gift  may  soon  fall  in, 
thought  Bradford,  with  a  little  rush  of  pity.  There 
was  another  way  than  resignation;  Craven,  after 
thirty-eight  years  of  service,  might  die  in  har- 
ness after  all,  and  Bradford  hoped  the  kindly  fates 
would  permit  it.  Yet,  when  he  talked  to  the  pickle- 
maker,  Bradford  saw  very  clearly  Murdoch's  posi- 
tion. Suppose  Dr.  Craven  should  outlast  the  year 
— or  two — or  five,  or  even  ten  ?  His  powers  of  in- 
tellect seemed  unabated  by  his  years ;  and  even 
his  appearance  had  been  much  as  it  was  for  a 
decade. 

Meanwhile,  was  Murdoch's  glory  to  be  shad- 
owed, and  his  laurel  to  wither  before  he  could  pluck 
it?  Men  who  had  given  away  ten  million  dollars 
were  rare,  yet  they  existed,  and  not  so  innumerously. 
But  no  man  had  ever  given  away  ten  million  dollars 
which  he  had  amassed  before  his  fortieth  birthday. 
True,  this  desire  to  splurge  was  cheap  enough,  and 
any  really  great  man,  Bradford  mused,  would  have 
stood  far  above  it.  True,  newspaper  notoriety  and 
the  reputation  of  a  dazzlingly  successful  youth  were 
[286] 


MARRIAGE 

small  matters.  But  the  pickle-maker  wanted  them 
savagely,  and  nevertheless  forebore  to  seize  them 
when  they  lay  in  reach  of  his  hand,  because,  if  he 
took  them,  an  old  man  might  suffer  a  little  in  his 
pride.  It  was  all  very  funny,  and  a  little  pathetic, 
too — and  it  would  make  a  splendid  story,  Bradford 
thought. 

June  lapsed  into  July.  Commencement  time  had 
come  and  gone,  and  Kate  stood  up  among  the 
younger  men,  who  were  receiving  their  careless 
bachelor  degrees,  to  take  his  doctorate  of  philos- 
ophy, which  the  President  conferred  upon  him  with 
fine  old-fashioned  dignity  and  pride. 

"  Ad  te,  Catonem  Henricum  Strong,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  lingered  on  the  little  Latin  pronoun 
as  if  he  loved  it.  Few  such  degrees  had  he  the 
opportunity  to  give ;  never  one  to  a  man  he  cared 
so  much  for.  "  Ad  te,  Catonem  Henricum  Strong," 
and  as  he  pronounced  the  strange  foreign  syllables 
the  boys  cheered  Kate  wildly.  He  was  very  popu- 
lar, was  Kate. 

"Kit!     Kit!     Kitty!" 

"  Here,  pussy !     Me-ow-w-w !  " 

"  Buck  the  tackle,  old  man !  " 
[287] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Don't  trip  on  the  gown,  Kate !  Hold  her  up, 
boy!" 

But  Kate  never  smiled,  looking  straight  before 
him  into  the  tall  Doctor's  eyes,  which  had  once  been 
a  little  above  the  level  of  his  own.  He  received  the 
appointment  as  instructor  of  Greek,  in  Dr.  Craven's 
own  department;  he  was  to  continue  as  teacher 
where  he  had  been  student,  and  they  cheered  that, 
too. 

Then  July  passed,  and  August  came,  and  Brad- 
ford and  Amy  were  married  at  St.  Hilda's,  with  a 
flame  of  candles  and  a  glory  of  music  round  about. 
Murdoch  insisted  on  the  most  gorgeous  of  weddings. 
"  People  out  of  town  ?  "  said  he.  "  By  the  Lord 
Plarry,  we'll  give  'em  something  to  come  back  for." 
Amy  came  up  the  long  aisle  on  her  uncle's  arm,  to 
where  Bradford  stood  with  Kate  and  Clarges. 
Bradford  took  two  quick  steps  down  to  meet  her; 
even  at  that  moment  she  was  calm  enough  to  look 
her  happiness  into  his  eyes  one  instant.  They  were 
facing  the  altar. 

Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man?  I,  her  uncle,  and  with  good  will. 

Do  you,  Francis,  take  Amy  to  your  wedded  wife  ? 
While  all  the  world  looks  on,  I  do. 
[288] 


MARRIAGE 

Do  you,  Amy,  take  Francis  to  your  wedded  hus- 
band? I  do. 

Then  you  are  pronounced  man  and  wife.  What 
God  hath  joined  together,  who  shall  put  asunder? 

Then  Clarges  prayed.  His  dark  face  was  un- 
moved ;  he  finished  the  ceremony  methodically. 

"  The  rector  does  everything  on  business  prin- 
ciples," whispered  a  man  among  the  guests,  to  his 
wife.  "  Bet  you  he  is  thinking  now  how  much  his 
fee  will  be.  I  would  as  soon  be  married  by  machin- 
ery." 

"  Isn't  he  handsome  ?  " 

"  Who — the  groom  ?  Matter  of  taste,  my  dear. 
7  was,  to  you." 

"  I  mean  Father  Clarges,  of  course !  Bow  your 
head,  Harry,  and  stop  whispering !  Don't  you  see 
he's  praying?  " 

"  What  a  looker  she  is — isn't  she  ?  " 

"  I  never  did  like  little  women." 

"  She's  not  a  hair  shorter  than  you  are,  my 
dear." 

"  Indeed,  she's  a  good  inch !  It's  only  her  gown 
makes  her  seem  so  tall.  I  looked  perfectly  enor- 
mous in  my  train." 

[289] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  You  were  just  the  right  height,  I  remember. 
Now  they're  coming  down !  " 

"  Don't  stare  at  her  so.     It  embarrasses  a  bride." 

"  Mighty  few  of  'em  need  worry.  But  this  one 
sees  not  me ;  she  sees  only  her  husband — as  a  wife 
should." 

"  What  nonsense — as  if  you  wanted  to  cage 
us!" 

Thus  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bradford  came  down  the 
aisle  together. 

"  Mercy,  Harry,  look  at  the  carriages !  " 

"  There's  a  reception  at  the  house,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Only  to  particular  friends." 

"  I'll  bet  the  pickle-man  wishes  his  place  was 
bigger  now.  Really,  I'm  surprised  he  don't  hire 
a  hall." 

The  particular  friends  gathered  at  the  reception. 
Miss  Mangier  was  there,  and  congratulated  Amy 
warmly.  "  Such  a  charming  man,  my  dear!  I 
know  scarcely  a  woman  who  would  not  tell  you  the 
same  thing,  and  with  reason.  But  do  be  careful! 
Those  are  the  dangerous  sort  to  wives,  you  know. 
Keep  a  tight  rein,  my  dear !  "  Over  the  punch  she 
confided  certain  views  to  a  young  man  whom  she 
[290] 


MARRIAGE 

captured  easily,  and  held  with  her  glittering  eye, 
though  like  the  other  wedding-guest  he  beat  his 
breast.  "  Champagne  punch,  of  course !  One 
wonders  that  they  do  not  serve  it  in  gold  goblets. 
This  sort  of  display  is  the  curse  of  America — don't 
you  think  so,  Mr.  Barnes?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  You  know  these  two  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Which — the  bride  or  the  groom  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am."  With  a  wild  plunge  past  her, 
a  hot  heart,  and  some  exculpatory  murmur  on  his 
lips,  Shedsy  disgracefully  escaped. 

"  Come  along,  oh  c-come  along,  K-Kitty  dear! 
Females  surround  me;  my  c-collar  melts;  agony 
grips  my  h-heart.  Come  with  me  and  we'll  get  a 
g- glass  of  beer !  " 

"  I  can't,  Shedsy.  The  best  man  can't  go  off 
like  that." 

"  The  worst  man  can — and  does.  G-good-by. 
K-kiss  the  bride  for  me." 

"  Kiss  her  yourself." 

"  God  forbid !  "  said  Shedsy.  "  And  yet  I  don't 
know  b-but  I'd  like  to."  Alas,  Amy  did  not  hear 
[291] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

that  compliment,  the  sincerest  she  received  through- 
out the  gratulatory  day. 

Miss  Craven  came  in  late,  and  kissed  Amy  almost 
in  tears.  "  Not  to  see  you  married,  my  darling ! 
It  was  hard.  The  Doctor  had  one  of  his  bad  turns 
again,  and  I  couldn't  leave  him.  Isabelle  is  with 
him  now.  She  sends  you  both  her  dear  love.  I 
had  to  come  for  just  a  moment.  Not  to  see  you 
married  after  all !  " 

"  Is  Dr.  Craven  very  ill,  Marion  ?  " 

"  N-no ;  I  don't  think  so.  He  has  had  one  of 
these  attacks  before.  We  were  a  little  afraid  it  was 
his  heart.  He  is  getting  old — poor  daddy !  "  Miss 
Craven's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  now.  "  And  I  had 
to  miss  your  marriage,  Amy !  " 

"  Never  mind,  Marion  dear.  I  know  you  wanted 
to  be  there." 

"  Isn't  that  the  first  time  you've  called  me 
Marion?  I'm  a  fool,  Amy;  an  old  fool.  It  is  all 
out  of  fashion  to  cry  at  weddings,  I  know.  Well, 
you  may  be  sure  I  sha'n't  cry  at  my  own." 

And  last  of  all,  the  rector  of  St.  Hilda's  attended 
the  reception. 

"  I  congratulate  you  heartily,  Bradford." 
[292] 


MARRIAGE 

"  I  think  I  deserve  congratulation,  Father 
Clarges.  I  know  you  have  done  service  to  the  whole 
community  this  summer,  but  I  fancy  you  haven't 
done  as  much  for  anybody  as  for  me  to-day." 

"  Is — Mrs.  Bradford,  where  is  she?  " 

"  Just  over  there  you  will  find  my  wife,  I  be- 
lieve," laughed  Bradford.  Clarges  looked,  and 
took  a  step  or  two  in  that  direction ;  but  he  never 
reached  Amy.  She  had  asked  him  not  to  speak 
to  her  again.  He  had,  indeed,  forfeited  the  right 
to  speak  to  her.  He  watched  her  a  moment.  The 
marriage  was  over,  now;  done  by  his  own  hand; 
they  had  taken  each  other  for  better  or  worse.  He 
looked  round  the  crowded  and  glaring  rooms,  so 
familiar  to  him,  and  yet  so  unfamiliar  in  their  holi- 
day dress,  and  reflected  that  of  the  company  he 
was  probably  the  only  one  to  be  fearing  the  outcome 
of  this  ceremony. 

"  It  is  done,"  he  thought.  "  What  remains  for 
me?  To  hope  for  them  both;  to  pray  for  Amy; 
and  to  take  myself  out  of  her  sight." 

Bradford  drove  away,  alone  in  the  carriage  with 
his  wife.  "  Don't  you  want  to  know  where  we  are 
going,  wife  of  mine  ?  " 

[293] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  I  am  going  with  you." 

There  was  an  interval.  Then  Bradford,  "  A  veil 
is  such  a  nuisance !  " 

"  Are  we  going  far,  Francis  ?  " 

"  Aha !  You  are  curious,  after  all  ?  Yes,  sweet- 
heart, very  far — to  the  Hills  of  Joy,  and  beyond !  " 

"  I  don't  call  that  far." 

"  Ah,  my  little,  little,  little  wife !  " 

When  they  reached  the  station,  Kate  met  them 
with  tickets,  which  he  thrust  into  Bradford's  hand. 
"  Your  baggage  is  all  right.  Yes,  I  attended  to 
the  fee.  Good-by,  Frankie.  God  bless  you  both. 
Au  revoir.  Oh,  you  lucky,  lucky  dog!  Oh,  you 
lucky  dog !  "  Kate  stared  after  them.  Then  he 
threw  back  his  head.  "  God  willing,  I'll  be  going 
off  that  way  myself — soon." 

She  said  to  him  on  the  train,  "  I  know  where  we 
are  going,  Francis." 

"  No!  "     Bradford  was  profoundly  surprised. 

"And  Uncle  Jack?" 

"  Uncle  Jack  has  turned  the  place  over  to  us  for 
a  while.  He  will  not  come  up  till  we  send  for  him." 

"  I  am  glad  my  wedding  was  on  such  a  perfect 
day." 

[294] 


MARRIAGE 

"  Mine  must  have  been  perfect,  since  it  was  to 
you,  Amy  dear." 

They  drove  to  the  bungalow  through  a  narrow 
way  among  the  sweet-scented  trees.  Blue  flower- 
eyes,  sleepy  in  the  warm  late  afternoon,  nodded  up 
at  them  drowsily.  Cones  mysteriously  dropped.  A 
rabbit  ran  across  the  road  in  front  of  them. 

"  See,  Amy !  " 

"  They  say  that  is  bad  luck,  Francis." 

"  We  shall  change  the  meaning  of  the  omen, 
dear." 

The  long,  low,  slate-colored  bungalow,  their  des- 
tination, dreamed  in  the  August  haze. 

"  We  are  here,  Amy — where  we  were  engaged." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  mutely ;  he  kissed  her  with 
his  old  faint,  sweet  touch  of  awe. 


[  295  ] 


Chapter  Sixteen 


-AND    AFfER 


"  There  was  a  girl  who  owned  a  doll 

All  daubed  with  liquid  glue, 
But  she  was  not  so  stuck  on  that 

As  I  am  stuck  on  you,  Mrs.  Bradford." 

"  That's  a  silly  verse,  Francis." 

"  That,  my  dear,  is  why  I  sing  it." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bradford  sat  upon  the  lawn,  among 
the  daisies  and  tufted  dandelions.  They  had  been 
married  nearly  one  day.  There  is  no  disguising 
the  fact  that  he  held  his  wife's  hand.  She  wore  a 
white  summer  dress,  cut  deeply  enough  to  show  the 
firm  outline  of  her  young  throat  and  the  whiteness 
just  below.  Bradford  lay  upon  his  back,  thinking 
of  nothing  but  his  own  happiness.  A  shadow  fell 
across  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  up  to  bebold  the 
smallest  Lowton,  very  scantily  clad,  who  was  sur- 
veying them  doubtfully. 

[296] 


AND     AFTER 


"  Go  away,  young  man,  go  away.  If  you  stay 
where  you  are,  I  shall  put  you  in  a  bag  and  throw 
you  in  the  river." 

"  Let  him  alone,  Francis." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Bradford,  he  is  the  scion  of  a 
worthy  house,  I  admit.  But  even  a  Lowton  must 
know  his  place.  There  is  a  time  coming  in  his  life 
when  he  will  regret  having  stared  at  us." 

"  Don't  you  like  children  ?  " 

"  I  adore  them;  but  not — just — now." 

"He  will  tell  on  us?" 

"  Precisely.  He  is  the  advance-agent  of  con- 
ventionality, and  therefore  I  shall  dismiss  him,  if  I 
can.  Youth,  begone !  Scatter !  Abi,  evasi,  erupi 
— or  words  to  that  effect." 

No  fear,  only  disgust,  was  evident  in  the  eyes  of 
the  youngest  Lowton,  as  he  turned  away.  There 
was  nothing  in  this  scene  for  a  man  of  parts  to 
contemplate  except  contemptuously. 

"  Francis,  Lowton  worships  you — did  you  know 
that?  " 

"  The  heathen  in  his  blindness  bows  down  to 
wood  and  stone !  " 

"  Hush !  You  know  I  don't  like  to  have  you 
[297] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

make  fun  of  yourself.  He  is  quite  right  to  care 
about  you.  Think  what  would  have  happened  to 
that  child  but  for  you." 

"  Among  other  things,  I  should  not  have  been 
enjoying  the  present  pleasure  of  your  society, 
Amy." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Confess  that  you  never  cared  about  me  until 
you  saw  me  jump  into  the  river." 

She  laughed.  "  As  if  that  mattered !  You 
couldn't  help  jumping  in.  It  only  made  me  a  little, 
little  surer  that  you  were  everything  I  thought 
you." 

"  Don't  you  praise  me,  my  wife ;  it  isn't  good 
for  me." 

"  Why  not,  if  I  think  it?  You  know  I  think  it. 
Francis,  do  you  remember  the  day  you  sang,  at  the 
Cravens'  tea?  " 

"  That  was  the  day  I  fell  in  love  with  the  woman 
who  subsequently  married  me." 

"  You  couldn't  have — so  soon !  " 

"  If  it  was  not  that  day,  little  girl,  I  swear  I 
don't  know  when  it  was." 

"  I  wonder  when  I  began  to  care  for  you  ?  " 
[298] 


AND     AFTER 


"  I  tell  you  it  was  the  day  I  jumped  into  the 
river." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  continued,  "  it  came  to  me,  too, 
that  day  at  the  Cravens'.  I  wonder?  I  know  that 
I  was  glad  that  someone  could  really  show  what 
he  thought  and  felt,  as  you  were  doing,  and  sorry 
that  I  was  so  dumb.  You  know  I  was  always  a 
dumb  thing.  I  could  never  even  let  Uncle  Jack  see 
that  I  cared  for  him — though  I  did,  tremendously. 
And  the  girls  fancied  I  wanted  not  to  be  with  them. 
It  wasn't  true,  but  how  could  I  tell  them  so?  That 
day,  when  I  heard  you  singing,  so  unconscious  of 
everything  except  what  the  song  meant  to  you,  I 
remember  I  held  my  breath;  I  couldn't  think  of 
anything,  only  wonder  why  it  seemed  so  sweet.  And 
then  do  you  remember  you  came  and  asked  me  how 
I  liked  it  ?  And  I  said — oh,  I  don't  know  what,  but 
I  could  see  that  you  were  hurt,  and  I  hated  myself. 
I  wanted  to  cry  out,  and  say — '  I  loved  it,  I  loved 
it ! '  but  I  couldn't  very  well  do  that,  could  I  ?  I 
almost  wish  I  had !  "  She  laughed  again,  merrily. 
Then  she  went  on,  more  thoughtfully,  "  I  wonder  if 
I  really  did  care  for  you  from  that  very  time?  If 
I  did  I  didn't  know  it ;  not  for  a  long  time.  I 
[299] 


THE  CHAMELEON 
began  to  suspect  you  cared  for  me,  but  I  couldn't 
see  why;  I  was  such  a  dumb  little  thing,  and  you 
were  so  clever  and  strong.  Sometimes  I  wanted  to 
scream  at  you — *  Oh,  don't  believe  that  I'm  just 
stupid!  Don't  fancy  I'm  heartless  because  I  can't 
speak!  I  do  care  about  things;  I  want  to  speak, 
but  something — something — '  *'  She  broke  off,  and 
looked  away  into  the  deep  blue  beyond  the  ridge  so 
thick  with  yellow-pines.  "  Dear,  how  did  you  ever 
guess?  How  did  you  know  that  poor  Amy  had  a 
heart  like  other  girls?  It  must  have  been  because 
you  are  so  strong  and  sure  yourself,  that  you  could 
understand  and  sympathize  with  me.  You  love  me, 
don't  you,  Francis?  And  I — I  love  you,  my  hus- 
band, my  king,  my  king!  " 

"Please  don't,  Amy!" 

a  Why  do  you  cry  when  I  tell  you  I  love  you  ? 
Do  you  mind  it?  I  will  try  not,  but  really,  I  can't 
help  it,  dear.  I  do  love  you,  so  I  have  to  tell  you. 
Why,  I  love  to  love  you !  I  never  loved  before.  Do 
you  see  the  sun  shining,  and  the  river  running  away, 
and  the  wind  down  there  in  the  grass  ?  I  saw  them 
all  my  life,  and  never  knew,  never  knew — that  they 
all  had  a  soul,  and  were  part  of  my  soul,  too.  I 
[800] 


AND     AFTER 


never  guessed  what  life  was.  I  watched  it,  but  it 
went  by  me,  and  how  was  I  to  know  what  it  meant? 
And  then  you  saw  me  watching  and  knew — how 
did  you  know?  I  was  only  a  girl  in  a  window, 
and  I  couldn't  speak,  couldn't  even  wave  my  hand 
to  you  as  you  rode  by;  but  you  loved  me,  and 
beckoned  to  me — and  I  came.  Of  course  I  love 
you,  dear." 

What  did  Bradford  see  as  she  spoke?  Gone  from 
his  vision  was  his  poor,  shivering  self;  clothed  with 
the  purple  and  samite  of  his  wife's  love,  he  beheld 
himself  royal  like  a  prince,  and  was  deceived,  of 
course.  We  should  have  known  better.  Yet  let  us, 
in  our  strong  self-knowledge,  spare  a  little  pity 
for  Bradford. 

"  Amy  dear,"  he  asked,  presently,  "  do  you  know 
that  I  have  never  told  you  my  mother's  first  name  ?  " 

"  What  was  it?  " 

"  Aimee.     Aimee  Curtis  Bradford." 

"  The  same  as  mine !  " 

"  Yes ;  the  same  as  yours." 

"Amy  Bradford,"  she  pronounced  aloud.  "Amy 
Bradford  she  was,  and  now  here  is  Amy  Bradford 
come  again.  Amy  Bradford!  I  have  been  Amy 
[301  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Power  so  long,  I  hardly  feel  acquainted  with  Amy 
Bradford!" 

"  So  long?  "  he  laughed. 

"  I  shall  be  twenty-one  my  next  birthday." 

"  Which  comes  in  July,  and  we  are  now  in 
August.  Why  in  a  hurry  to  grow  up,  my  wife?  " 

"  I  am  grown  up,  dear.  Amy  Power  was  a  little 
girl,  if  you  wish.  But  Amy  Bradford  is  grown 
up — quite  grown  up." 

"  You  want  some  inches  of  six  feet  still,  I  fear." 

"Was  she  tall?" 

"  Who,  dear?  " 

"  Your  mother." 

"  About  your  height,  my  wife." 

"  She  loved  you  very  much,  I  know?  " 

"  I  think  she  did— yes." 

"  And  she  has  been  dead  six  years.  Do  you 
think  she  knows  that  you  are  happy,  Francis? 
You  are  happy,  aren't  you  ?  " 

"  On  such  a  fine  day — yes,  my  wife,  I  am.  If 
the  sun  were  a  trifle  less  warm,  I  may  say  I  should 
be  completely  happy." 

"  My  mother  has  been  dead — twenty-one  years 
next  July." 

[302] 


AND     AFTER 


"  She  died  when  you  were  born,  didn't  she?  " 

"  Very  soon  after.    I  wonder  what  she  was  like !  " 

"  Small — and  still — and  beautiful — and  good, 
Amy." 

"  You  mean  that  I  am  those  ?  Dear,  I  love  to 
hear  you  call  me  beautiful.  It  makes  me  think  I 
am!" 

"  Do  you  believe  so  truly  in  my  word  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Francis." 

"  Thank  you,  my  wife." 

"And  Francis?" 

"Well?" 

"  I  am  not  beautiful,  I  am  afraid ;  nor  good. 
But  I  think  I  know  what  truth  is.  I  think,  in  just 
that  one  thing,  I  am  worthy  of  you,  my  husband. 
Francis,  do  you  think  I  ought  to  tell  you — every- 
thing? " 

"  That,  my  dear,  I  will  leave  to  your  judgment." 

"  There  was  a  man  once,"  she  said,  after  a  pause, 
"  who — told  me  he  loved  me." 

"  How  could  he  help  it?  " 

"I  hated  him!" 

"  I  know  him,  my  dear ;  or  one  of  him." 

"  There  was  only  one." 

[303] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  And  you  hated  him  ?  Did  he — did  he  say  any- 
thing— by  chance — about  me,  Amy  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  What?  " 

"  I  have  forgotten.  No ;  I  have  not  forgotten. 
But  he  will  not  speak  to  me  again." 

"  Are  you  so  unforgiving,  little  wife?  "  Brad- 
ford spoke  with  a  lazy  content.  He  bore  no  ill- 
will  to  Clarges.  In  fact,  he  was  a  little  pleased 
that  the  rector,  too,  should  have  transgressed  the 
rules  of  the  game;  it  marked  a  score  off  his  own 
book.  But  Amy  did  not  answer  the  smile  in  his 
voice.  Her  lips  were  firm  as  she  repeated, 

"  He  will  not  speak  to  me  again,  Francis." 

Lowton,  that  ancient  servitor,  here  appeared, 
axe  in  hand. 

"  Mirabel,  she  says  it's  dinner-time,  an'  she's 
gen'ally  right.  I  dunno  's  I  ever  saw  you  lookin' 
better,  Miss  Amy." 

"  Mrs.  Bradford,  Lowton.  Don't  forget 
that." 

"  Mis'  Bradford,  I  should  say.     I  was  remarkin' 
to  Mirabel  that  marriage  agrees  with  some  folks,  I 
guess,  but  it  never  agreed  with  me  much." 
[304] 


AND     AFTER 


"  What  have  you  been  cutting?  " 

"  Cuttin'  ?  "  Lowton's  voice  was  dramatic  in 
the  intensity  of  its  scorn.  "  I  hain't  been  cuttin' 
nothin'.  I  been  hammerin'  an  ol'  dead  log  to  pieces 
for  firewood,  same  ez  a  man  lookin'  fer  grub- 
worms  !  " 

"  Come,  Amy.     A  voice  crieth — dinner !  " 

There  is  an  infinitely  complex  joy  to  see  one's 
wife  at  such  a  simple  matter  as  the  washing  of  her 
face  and  hands,  and  the  adjustment  of  the  ripples 
of  her  hair. 

Luncheon  was  made  momentous  by  the  present 
of  a  cake — a  mighty  cake,  which  bore  the  legend, 
"  Welcome,  F.  and  A.,"  done  in  red  peppermints. 
The  younger  Lowton  carried  this  in,  his  mother 
following  to  explain.  "  And  we  hope  it  ain't  a 
libaty,  which  it  is ;  but  we're  so  fond  of  Miss  Amy ; 
an'  what  you  did  for  us,  sir,  can't  be  told.  So  I 
thought  how  a  cake " 

"  It  was  a  fine  thought,"  answered  Bradford, 
heartily,  "  and  this  is  a  fine  cake.  Will  you  have 
a  slice,  A.  ?  " 

"  Yes,  F.,  if  you  please." 

They  went  for  a  long  walk  after  luncheon.  Amy 
[305] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

attired  herself  in  a  blue  waist  and  a  short  blue 
skirt.  Blue  became  Bradford's  favorite  color — 
next  to  gray. 

"  Welcome,  huntress  of  the  ancient  woods.  Shall 
I  take  a  rifle?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  We  will  let  Cupid  walk  between 
us,  Amy,  and  use  his  bow  and  arrows  if  any  game 
turns  up."  She  laughed  gayly  for  answer.  The 
mildest  humor  found  her  favor,  if  it  was  Brad- 
ford's. Let  us  rise  up  and  call  blessed  the  wife 
who  laughs  at  her  husband's  wit.  There  is  more 
contentment  in  such  a  household  than  when  stalled 
oxen  are  the  daily  food. 

They  took  the  "  high  trail,"  across  the  river,  and 
along,  by  bushes  of  russet  and  bushes  of  green, 
through  colonnades  of  fir  and  pine.  Away  below 
the  river  crept  and  sparkled,  now  leaving  them, 
now  as  suddenly  returning.  Bradford  declared 
that  it  was  spying  on  them — a  detective  river,  set 
to  watch  their  doings  by  some  envious  and  inimical 
god. 

"  May  not  my  wife  and  I  walk  where  we  please  ?  " 
he  questioned,  disdainfully. 
[306] 


AND     AFTER 


By  and  by  they  reached  a  small  ravine,  descended 
it,  and  found  a  creek  wending  along.  He  made  a 
cup  of  his  hands,  and  she  drank. 

"  How  funny  it  tastes ! "  she  cried.  He  put 
some  to  his  lips.  "  Im-h'm !  Amy — do  you  see 
that  place  where  it  shallows  to  the  shore — there 
where  the  rock  is?  And  from  there  do  you  see 
that  scar,  like  a  road  almost,  up  the  side  of  the 
ravine?  Deer  made  that  scar.  This  is  a  deer- 
lick.  Here  they  come,  early  in  the  morning,  and 
take  their  Congress  water.  There  was  one  like  this 
up  north,  where  I  used  to  camp  out.  If  I  had  a  rifle 
now,  and  there  was  a  deer  there,  and  it  was  in  sea- 
son, and  I  could  hit  him — bang !  Venison  for  din- 
ner? Will  you  have  yours  broiled  or  fried,  my 
wife?  " 

"  Did  you  shoot  them  up  north  ?  " 

"  I  shot  at  them.  My  shooting  was  always  better 
when  I  had  left  the  rifle  in  camp — as  now.  Did  I 
ever  tell  you  about  my  guide's  Winchester?  He 
had  a  wonderful  Winchester,  only  he  hadn't  it  with 
him.  *  That  thar  gun,'  he  told  us,  '  she'd  shoot 
five  hundred  yards  on  a  dead  level,  and  then,  boys, 
she'd  raise  a  leetle.' " 

[307] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Was  that  the  time  you  had  the  fight  at  the 
dance?  " 

"  That  was  the  time,  oh,  Amy." 

She  was  sitting  on  the  rock  above  the  spot  to 
which  the  deer  were  used  to  come.  The  sunlight, 
flinging  recklessly  down  the  hill  among  the  trees, 
checkered  the  water  and  barred  the  skirt  of  her 
gown.  No  word  whispered  to  Bradford — "  Be 
careful !  "  No  thought  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
moment,  no  thought  of  sorrow,  came  into  his  mind ; 
he  only  smiled  to  see  the  sweetness  of  this  young 
girl,  his  wife. 

"Francis?" 

"Yes?" 

"  I  remember  that  story  about  the  dance  so  well ! 
I  have  often  thought  of  it  since.  You  were  so  near 
death — and  then  I  might  never  have  known  you, 
never  have  known  you."  Her  voice  dropped  softly. 
"  I  want  to  ask  you  something  funny." 

"  The  half  of  my  kingdom?  " 

"  No,  dear.  But  you  told  me  once  about  that 
scar  on  your  shoulder,  where  you  were  shot."  Her 
voice  sank  a  little  lower  still.  "  To-night,  Francis 
— when  we  are  alone — will  you  show  it  to  me, 

please  ?  " 

[308] 


AND     AFTER 


The  question  struck  home  so  suddenly,  he  could 
scarcely  gather  his  wits  to  meet  it.  His  wife 
waited,  her  hand  busy  idly  with  the  moss  upon  the 
stone,  and  a  lovely  shyness  in  her  gray  eyes ;  and  he 
thought  rapidly  and  hard.  There  was  no  scar 
upon  his  shoulder.  Should  he  tell  her  that  the  mark 
had  disappeared?  But  what  had  he  told  her  less 
than  a  year  before?  Bradford  understood  very 
clearly  with  what  ease  one  may  draw  about  him  a 
network  of  lies,  and  with  what  difficulty  he  escapes 
from  it.  Had  he  but  known,  he  might  safely  have 
explained  the  matter  so,  for  she  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  doubting  his  word.  But  again  he 
judged  her  by  himself.  He  thought  of  pretending 
that  she  must  have  been  mistaken,  and  that  he  had 
never  told  her  the  scar  was  there.  But  he  dared 
not  do  it.  So,  at  length,  driven  to  honesty,  he 
said,  his  voice  a  little  strained,  as  even  he  could 
tell, 

"  Why,  my  dearest,  I  would,  but  you  see — "  He 
broke  off.  This  was  not,  after  his  wife's  words  of 
the  morning,  the  easiest  task  he  had  ever  had  to  do. 
She  looked  at  him,  a  little  frightened. 

"  Francis — shouldn't  I  have  asked?  " 
[309] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Oh,  Amy !  "  The  realization  of  her  delicious 
charm  caught  at  his  heart  afresh ;  and  yet  it  is  true 
that  even  in  the  moment  he  wondered  whether  he 
might  not  escape  so.  He  may  be  forgiven ;  he  was 
a  hunted  man.  And  he  knew  at  once,  with  his  keen 
judgment  in  such  matters,  that  no  loop-hole  opened 
in  that  remark.  Poor  fellow,  he  was  used  to  esti- 
mating the  chances  of  a  lie.  "  It  is  only,  dear,  that 
— well,  I  stretched  that  matter  a  little,  I'm  afraid, 
when  I  told  you."  It  was  very  hard  to  say.  And 
the  bullet  had  really  gone  very  close.  What  is  the 
distance  from  the  truth  to  a  lie?  "  There  isn't 
really  any  scar.  The  bullet  didn't  quite  hit  me; 
or  it  just  grazed  me,  rather." 

She  stared  at  him,  not  quite  understanding. 
"  Then — there  is  no  scar?  " 

"  None,  dear." 

Her  brain  wrought  over  this  puzzle.  He,  her 
husband,  had  said — and  now  he  unsaid.  "  Then 
there  was  no  fight  at  all?  Wasn't  any  of  it 
true?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was  all  true,"  he  assured  her,  hastily. 
"  All  true.  The  fellow  fired,  and  as  I  dodged  down 
the  bullet  went  right  over  the  corner  of  my  shoulder 
[310] 


AND     AFTER 


— see,  just  here!"  But  this  time  he  caught  no 
glance  of  absorption  in  his  story.  Yet  he  hurried 
on.  "  I  heard  it  go  smash !  against  the  wall,  and 
I  saw  that  my  coat  was  torn.  It  felt  as  if  some- 
one had  suddenly  drawn  a  pin  across  my  shoulder 
— that's  all."  Even  now,  though  he  longed  to 
stick  exactly  to  the  truth,  he  did  not  quite.  If  you 
will  fancy  yourself  in  Bradford's  place,  you  may 
appreciate  the  quickness  of  his  shifts,  the  sureness 
of  his  adapted  details ;  and  you  may  understand 
then  the  dramatic  vividness  of  imagination  which 
Bradford  had  to  combat.  How  he  hung  on  Amy's 
next  word ! 

"  This  rock  is  growing  cold,"  she  said.  "  Let's 
walk  on,  dear."  He  helped  her  down,  and  they 
walked  on — at  first  in  silence,  but  soon  that  became 
unbearable,  and  he  talked  and  talked — the  fiercest 
effort,  so  far,  of  a  fiercely  clever  life.  She  answered 
him ;  but — did  he  imagine  it?  He  felt  as  if  she  had 
slipped  back  somehow  into  the  old  Amy — Amy 
Power — the  Amy  of  his  first  love,  not  the  Amy  he 
had  married.  Was  this  his  imagination  only? 
During  all  the  afternoon  the  question  tormented 
him.  What  was  she  thinking  of  him?  She  had 
[311] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

said  that  she  believed  herself  beautiful  because  he 
told  her  so.  It  would  be  hard  to  overestimate  the 
sensitiveness  of  Bradford's  nerves.  He  went  on 
loving  his  wife  more  and  more  dearly.  But  he  did 
not  know  what  she  thought  of  him,  and  he  dared 
not  ask. 

That  night,  as  he  lay  awake,  the  buzzing  of  the 
river  in  his  ears,  he  saw  again  that  recurrent  vision 
of  the  pilgrims  on  a  yellow,  winding  road  over 
brown,  flat  land.  His  wife  slept  peacefully  beside 
him;  yet  again  when  in  the  vision  he  would  have 
gone  to  her,  the  river  sprang  between,  and  when 
he  would  have  plunged  in,  behold,  again  she  waved 
him  away  and  disappeared!  So  certain  was  the 
picture  that  in  an  agony  of  fear  he  reached  out 
his  hand  and — touched  his  wife's  cheek  upon  the 
pillow. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  " 

"  Nothing,  Amy."  So — she  had  not  been  asleep, 
then? 

They  remained  a  month  at  the  Ridge.     His  wife 

was  very  sweet.     As  he  grew  to  know  her  in  the 

intimacy  of  marriage,  he  only  loved  her  more  and 

more.     The  memory  of  that  first  day  and  night 

[312] 


AND     AFTER 


faded  out  of  his  thoughts  almost  entirely — almost. 
Yet  there  came  now  and  then  the  haunting,  harry- 
ing wonder — what  did  she  think  of  him  ?  For  she 
had  never  spoken  of  the  story  of  the  scar. 


[313] 


Chapter  Seventeen 

DRIFTING 

A  few  people  live  their  lives  like  a  novel,  knowing 
that  every  chapter  has  a  bearing  on  the  whole,  and 
that  a  continuous  thread  runs  through  all.  But 
most  of  us  pass  our  days  as  if  we  thought  them  a 
volume  of  short  stories,  which  have  not  necessarily 
any  connection  with  each  other.  This  is  fortunate^, 
no  doubt.  If  we  incessantly  realized  that  the  events 
of  last  week,  or  last  year,  were  to  play  a  part  in 
to-morrow's  experience,  we  should  be  in  a  state  of 
intolerable  hesitation,  timidity,  and  depression.  If 
Bradford,  for  instance,  had  been  forced  constantly 
to  remember,  every  day  and  all  day,  that  a  certain 
difference  between  his  own  character  and  his  wife's 
had  been  made  plain  early  in  their  married  life,  and 
if,  in  love  with  Amy  as  he  certainly  was,  he  never 
could  have  got  away  from  the  impression  that  she 
distrusted  him,  he  would  have  done  one  of  two 
[314] 


DRIFTING 

things :  hated  her,  or  hated  himself.  Either  result 
would  have  seemed  unendurable,  or  at  least  distress- 
ing. As  it  was,  the  shadow-memory  fell  across 
his  path  quite  frequently  enough  to  annoy  him. 
Instead  of  careering  on  comfortably,  he  was  now 
and  then  conscious,  with  a  sort  of  passionate  irrita- 
tion, of  slight  errors  in  his  statements  of  fact,  or 
slight  variations,  under  the  influence  of  some  out- 
side suggestion,  from  his  normal  procedure.  The 
fact  that  he  seldom  talked  so  well  to  his  friends  as 
to  a  stranger;  the  fact  that  a  sneer  acted  like  a 
drink  of  whiskey  on  his  nerves ;  and  the  fact,  above 
all,  that  once  or  twice  under  such  circumstances  he 
had  intercepted  his  wife's  glance  and  looked  quickly 
away — these  matters  troubled  him  occasionally. 
But  for  days  and  weeks  he  forgot  them  altogether, 
and  lived  in  a  happy  unconsciousness  of  them,  and 
walked  on  air. 

Among  these  times  of  doubt,  he  wondered,  now 
and  then,  what  it  was  the  rector  had  said  of  him 
to  Amy,  and  once  or  twice  he  asked  her;  but  Amy 
put  the  question  by,  and  Bradford  did  not  like  to 
press  it,  though  he  momentarily,  at  least,  despised 
himself  for  not  liking  to.  It  is  true,  he  never  went 
[315] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

so  far  as  to  admit  to  himself  that  he  was  afraid  of 
Clarges,  and  did  not  even  dream  that  he  was  afraid 
of  his  wife.  The  fact  that  in  his  only  struggle  with 
the  rector — if  his  suit  for  Amy's  hand  could  be 
regarded  as  such  a  struggle — he  had  come  off  vic- 
torious, disposed  of  the  former  idea,  to  his  mind; 
and  the  latter  he  would  merely  have  said  was  absurd, 
laughed,  kissed  his  wife  with  a  keener  pleasure,  and 
told  her  about  it  with  a  delightful  confidence  in 
her  answering  smile.  Nevertheless,  he  suggested 
that  Clarges  should  be  invited  to  dinner.  Amy 
wrinkled  her  brows  into  a  question,  but  Bradford 
assured  her  that  they  could  do  no  less — the  rector 
had  undoubtedly  married  them,  and  anybody  who 
had  done  him  such  a  service  as  that,  he  wanted  to 
reward.  So  Amy  acquiesced  quietly,  without 
showing  that  the  acquiescence  cost  her  anything, 
and  stipulated  only  that  the  dinner  should  include 
others  besides  Clarges.  The  minister  relieved  her 
by  pleading  a  previous  engagement,  in  which  she 
took  the  liberty  of  disbelieving — the  more  when  he 
failed  to  call.  His  failure  to  call,  half  the  women 
of  St.  Hilda's  would  have  told  her,  was  nothing; 
he  never  called,  save  when  the  spirit  moved,  and  it 
[316] 


DRIFTING 

was  immovable  by  dinners;  but  Amy  would  have 
kept  her  own  opinion  still.  She  did  not  like  Father 
Clarges,  she  did  not  even  wish  to  like  him,  but  she 
thought  she  understood  him. 

A  certain  opposition  to  the  rector  showed  itself 
in  some  of  his  flock  at  this  time.  The  fact  that  he 
had  conducted  the  negotiations  which  resulted  in 
ending  the  street-car  strike  was  cherished  against 
him  in  some  quarters.  There  was  a  general  feeling 
that  the  men  had  got  no  more  than  was  fair,  and  a 
widespread  satisfaction  in  the  resumption  of  unin- 
terrupted traffic ;  but  what,  argued  Mr.  Gaines  the 
trustee  and  others,  was  to  become  of  capital  if  out- 
siders meddled  with  its  concerns  ?  The  privilege  of 
conducting  a  man's  business  to  suit  himself  was  one 
which  should  not  be  denied  lightly  to  anybody. 
And,  moreover,  that  a  minister  should  have  stooped 
to  deal  with  practical  affairs  was  also  considered 
unwise.  Mr.  Gaines  was  as  astounded  as  any 
knight  of  old  might  have  been  if  a  herald,  sud- 
denly ceasing  to  blow  his  trumpet  and  proclaim  the 
greatness  of  his  master  the  king,  had  rolled  up  his 
sleeves  and  taken  a  hand  in  the  battle.  Clarges's 
action  was  incongruous ;  it  was  radical.  Mr. 
[317] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Gaines,  and  those  who  agreed  with  him,  began  to 
hint  that  possibly  an  older  and  steadier  man  should 
be  found  for  St.  Hilda's ;  a  man  who  knew,  without 
dropping  it,  on  which  side  his  bread  was  buttered ; 
a  man,  to  use  Mr.  Gaines's  phrase,  who  could  be 
trusted.  Bradford  told  Murdoch  that  half  Gaines's 
insistence  sprang  from  the  fear  that  Clarges  would 
alienate  his  wife's  affections ;  and  Murdoch,  who  had 
been  trying  hard  not  to  sympathize  with  the  atti- 
tude of  his  co-trustee,  roared  with  laughter,  and 
clapped  his  leg,  and  openly  arrayed  himself  on  the 
side  of  the  rector.  But  indeed,  if  he  were  expect- 
ing gratitude  for  that,  he  must  have  been  disap- 
pointed. Clarges  made  no  effort  to  conciliate  his 
enemies,  if  they  could  be  called  such,  nor  to  thank 
his  friends;  and,  so  far  as  could  be  judged,  was 
quite  as  unaffected  by  one  as  by  the  other. 

It  was  this  opposition  which  Bradford  alleged 
to  himself  for  excuse,  when  he  dropped  into 
Clarges's  rooms  one  November  evening.  He  had 
been  working  late  at  the  office,  and  had  telephoned 
to  Amy  saying  that  he  should  not  be  out  till  nine ; 
but  after  all  he  found  himself  in  his  own  neighbor- 
hood by  eight  o'clock.  As  he  would  have  put  it, 
[318] 


DRIFTING 

the  whim  seized  him  to  look  up  the  rector,  whom 
he  had  scarcely  even  seen  for  a  month;  church- 
going  was  not  precisely  one  of  Bradford's  affecta- 
tions. When  he  knocked,  a  voice  cried  "  Come  in !  " 
and  he  entered,  to  find  the  rector,  with  his  feet  on 
a  chair,  smoking  a  cigar.  He  rose,  however,  and 
shook  hands  cordially  enough,  offered  Bradford  a 
cigar,  and  then  slipped  into  his  previous  attitude. 
For  a  few  minutes  they  smoked  in  silence. 

"  I  saw  a  thing  to-day,"  said  the  rector,  present- 
ly, as  if  they  had  been  discussing  personal  experi- 
ences, "  that  interested  me  a  good  deal.  I  was  down 
in  Boxtown,  and  I  happened  to  notice  a  very  small 
boy,  perhaps  four  or  five  years  old,  who  was  crying 
on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  While  I  was  looking 
at  him  another  boy,  a  size  smaller,  came  up  behind 
and  gave  him  a  push  which  sent  him  flat  into  the 
road.  There  happened  to  be  a  truck  passing,  as 
usual,  and  if  the  little  beggar  hadn't  been  snatched 
out  of  that  in  a  hurry  he  would  have  been  run  over. 
I  tried  to  find  out  what  the  trouble  was,  but  the 
first  child  was  crying  too  hard  to  talk,  and  the 
second  was  stubborn,  and  wouldn't  say  a  word.  So 
I  asked  an  older  boy,  who  was  watching  it,  if  he 
[319] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

could  explain.  He  said,  *  Sure !  Don't  yer  see 
one  of  dem  kids  is  a  sheeny  and  de  other's  a  dago  ?  ' 
I  was  still  a  little  in  doubt,  and  he  enlightened  me 
further.  *  De  sheeny's  off  his  beat ;  he  don't  be- 
long on  dis  street;  he'd  better  be  moseying  out  of 
dis  if  he  wants  ter  keep  his  nut  on.'  The  sheeny 
evidently  quite  agreed,  for  he  suddenly  ceased  his 
tears,  and  attached  himself  so  firmly  to  my  leg 
that  I  had  to  escort  him  home  to  get  rid  of  him." 

"  Was  it  a  race  war?  " 

"  Something  of  the  sort,  I  gathered." 

"  What  takes  you  into  Boxtown?  Do  you  think 
it's  part  of  the  *  highways  and  the  hedges  '  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.     I  had  a  little  business  there." 

"  Connected  with  your  dear  strikers,  I  suppose," 
laughed  Bradford,  tolerantly.  "  Well,  I  wanted 
to  tell  you — I  haven't  had  a  chance  before — that 
you  did  a  mighty  fine  thing  in  settling  that  strike." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  You're  thinking  I'm  some  days  after  the  fair, 
aren't  you,  considering  the  strike  has  been  over  so 
long?  I  admit  it.  But  it  hasn't  been  our  fault 
that  we  haven't  seen  more  of  you,  Clarges.  Why 
don't  you  come  to  dinner  when  you're  asked  ?  " 
[320] 


DRIFTING 

"  I  was  sorry  to  be  unable." 

Bradford  laughed  again.  "  Well,  you  may  have 
been.  I  don't  want  to  boast  about  my  wife,  but  I 
haven't  forgot  the  obligation  you  put  me  under 
when  you  married  us." 

Clarges  smoked  gravely. 

"  Is  there  anything,"  went  on  Bradford,  "  that 
wakes  a  man  up  to  the  possibilities  of  life  like  get- 
ting married?  I  remember  what  I  used  to  think 
about  it,  when  I  was  a  bachelor  like  you,  you  old 
celibate,  and  I  stand  dumb  before  my  own  foolish- 
ness. There  were  times  when  I  used  to  wonder 
whether  any  kindness  was  in  the  Power  that  ruled 
the  world  or  not.  It  used  to  seem  probable  that 
there  was  none ;  we  were  pitchforked  into  existence 
by  some  law  of  ultimate  progress,  which  would 
probably  end  in  something  great,  but  which  was 
mighty  hard  on  us  intermediates.  I  had  aspira- 
tions and  dreams,  and  no  earthly  chance  to  satisfy 
them,  as  I  very  well  knew;  and  it  seemed  to  me  a 
poor  sort  of  providence  which  would  tie  a  donkey 
up  in  sight  of  a  barrel  of  oats,  leave  him  starving 
there  a  while,  and  then  come  and  knock  him  on  the 
head.  I  know  better  now.  I  recognize  the  fact 
[321  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

that  I'm  still  a  donkey ;  even  marriage  can't  alter  me 
in  that ;  but  I  know  what  I'm  put  in  the  world  for, 
at  any  rate,  which  is  more  than  any  unmarried  man 
can  say.  You  think  I'm  a  raving  lunatic,  but 
really  the  shoe's  on  the  other  foot ;  it's  you  who  are 
out  of  harmony  with  the  scheme  of  things,  not  I. 
Do  you  want  to  know  the  recipe  for  certain  happi- 
ness? Go  find  a  woman  like  my  wife,  and  marry 
her." 

Clarges  nodded  in  silence.  He  was  convinced, 
now,  that  Amy  had  never  told  her  husband  of  their 
words  at  Murdoch's  dinner.  He  hesitated,  not 
knowing  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  of  the  fact. 
Sometimes  he  was  sure  that  Bradford  suspected  his 
own  disability;  sometimes  he  thought  the  young 
man  was  supremely  unconscious  of  it.  Just  now 
he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  Bradford's 
words  expressed  only  native  enthusiasm,  or  whether 
they  concealed  a  wish  to  find  out  what  other  peo- 
,ple  thought.  Therefore  he  waited  for  the  next 
move. 

"  Do  you  know  what  day  this  is  ?  " 

"  Eighteenth  of  November?  " 

"  Exactly.  Eighteenth  of  last  November,  my 
[  322  ] 


DRIFTING 

dear  sir,  I  really  began  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance." 

"  So?  " 

"  Don't  you  recollect — Shedsy  and  I  came  to 
church,  and  you  corralled  us  and  brought  us  up 
here.  You  should  have  heard  Shedsy  rave  about 
your  rooms  afterward !  He  wanted  to  turn  Epis- 
copalian minister.  Well,  I've  been  mighty  glad  to 
know  you  this  year.  I  hope  we're  not  going  to 
drift  apart  now." 

"  What  makes  you  think  we  shall  ?  " 

"  I  don't.  Shedsy's  theory  is,  though,  that  a 
married  man  is  lost  to  his  friends." 

"  We'll  hope  he's  wrong." 

"  Yes.  Because  a  man  has  come  into  his  fortune 
is  no  reason  why  he  should  despise  the  poor  beggars 
who  are  still  waiting  for  their  luck.  Clarges,  why 
don't  you  take  my  word  for  the  joy  of  it,  and  get 
married?  " 

The  rector's  football  training  had  given  him 
agility,  but  not  deftness,  apparently.  Reaching 
for  more  tobacco,  he  upset  a  small  vase,  which 
rolled  off  the  edge  of  his  mantelpiece  and  was 
smashed  to  bits. 

[323] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  That  was  one  of  my  favorites,  too,"  he  said, 
sadly,  as  he  picked  up  the  pieces.  "  I  bought  it 
for  a  wedding  present,  and  was  too  much  enamoured 
of  it  to  send  it  on." 

Bradford  was  properly  grieved.  He  did  not 
press  his  question,  and  their  talk  shifted  to  Shedsy 
and  other  topics.  It  is  plain  that  neither  Bradford 
nor  the  rector  were  intended  for  the  diplomatic 
service;  for,  when  Bradford  had  soon  after  taken 
his  leave,  he  went  away  smiling  to  himself.  "  If 
that  was  really  a  favorite  vase,"  he  mused,  "  the 
dominie  should  find  a  cheaper  way  of  turning  the 
subject."  And  Clarges  said  to  himself, 

"  She  hasn't  told  him,  or  he  wouldn't  be  cad 
enough  to  pretend  friendship ;  but  he  guesses,  and 
wants  to  make  sure.  I  wonder  if  trouble  has  come 
already  ?  "  His  eyes  were  sombre. 

Bradford  found  Amy  waiting  for  him.  She 
kissed  him,  and  helped  him  to  take  off  his  coat,  as 
she  always  did,  but  afterward  she  slipped  away, 
leaving  him  to  the  society  of  Murdoch.  The 
pickle-maker  was  reading,  a  popular  magazine,  and 
grunting  over  it.  Presently  he  dashed  it  to  one 
side. 


DRIFTING 

"  D d  fool  stories,"  he  growled,  "  all  about 

boys  and  girls,  as  if  men  and  women  weren't  worth 
writing  about.  Can't  get  away  from  the  idea  that 
if  a  man's  in  love  he's  happy,  and  when  he  stops 
being  in  love  he's  unhappy.  You  been  having  any 
row  with  Amy,  Frank  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Bradford,  surprised.  "Why?" 
"  Well,  you  didn't  come  home  to  dinner,  and  she 
seemed  grumpy.     Don't  waste  your  time  quarrel- 
ling; life's  too  short.     But  it's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness, I  know." 

"  You're  altogether  mistaken,"  said  Bradford. 
Then  they  relapsed  into  silence,  from  which  pres- 
ently Bradford  roused  himself  to  follow  his  wife 
upstairs.  Murdoch's  words  had  set  him  wondering, 
although  he  was  sure  that  had  anything  been  wrong 
with  Amy  he  should  have  noticed  it  as  he  came  in. 
He  found  her  sitting  doing  nothing — something 
unusual  for  Amy.  He  went  and  stood  behind  her 
chair. 

"  You  have  such  pretty  hair,  my  wife !  " 
She  said  nothing,  but  she  put  up  her  hand,  and 
clasped   one    of  his,  so  that   he   was   entirely   re- 
assured. 

[325] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  I  wonder  if  we  are  never  going  to  quarrel, 
Amy !  "  he  laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

"  Your  uncle  was  just  lecturing  me.  He  thinks 
I've  done  something  to  you — hurt  your  feelings." 

She  only  held  his  hand  the  tighter. 

"  Dearest !  "  He  bent  over  to  kiss  her ;  and,  as 
he  did  so,  a  letter  fell  from  his  breast-pocket  into 
her  lap.  She  picked  it  up.  It  was  bent  and 
frayed,  and  showed  signs  of  having  been  carried 
long;  but  it  was  not  that  which  caused  her  quick 
glance  up  at  him.  She  had  involuntarily  read  the 
superscription.  The  address  was,  "  To  my  Mother 
in  Heaven." 

"  Just  a  whim  of  mine,  once,"  he  said,  speaking 
lightly. 

Their  eyes  met.  "  May  I  read  it,  dear?  "  she 
asked,  softly. 

There  was  an  odd  light  in  Bradford's  eyes  as  he 
dropped  his  face  to  her  hair,  and  kissed  it.  "  I — I 
would  rather  not,  Amy." 

"  Forgive  me  for  asking.  But — do  you  miss 
her  so?" 

"  Never — never  since  I  have  had  you,  my  love !  " 
[326] 


DRIFTING 

She  yielded  him  the  letter,  but  when  he  had 
taken  it  she  still  seemed  to  cling  to  his  hand.  "  I 
am  glad  to  fill  her  place  a  little,  dear.  But  I  have 
wondered  if  you  missed  her.  It  is  so  long  since 
my  mother  died!  I  think  sometimes  that  I  can 
remember  her,  though.  I  have  been  wishing — 
lately — that  she  could  come  back  to  me." 

A  pang  went  to  Bradford's  heart.  "  Are  you 
tired  of  me  already,  Amy  ?  "  he  asked,  trying  to 
smile. 

Suddenly  she  clutched  his  hand  to  her,  and  laid 
her  lips  against  it.  "  My  husband,  my  husband ! 
Don't  you  see  what  I  mean?  I — have  something 
to  tell  you." 

He  knelt  at  his  wife's  feet,  and  put  his  arms  about 
her ;  and  she  told  him — not  with  words,  but  with  her 
eyes,  and  the  fluttering  touch  of  her  hands.  They 
sat  long  in  silence.  Bradford  broke  it. 

"  And  I  told  a  man — only  this  evening — that  I 
knew  what  happiness  was !  " 


[327] 


Chapter  Eighteen 
MURDOCH'S  BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

"  Uncle  Jack,"  said  Amy,  at  the  dinner-table,  "  has 

an  extraordinary  way  of  celebrating  birthdays.  He 

has  brought  me  a  sable  jacket,  which  I  don't  need, 

because  he  is  thirty-nine  to-day." 

"  We  drink  your  health,  Uncle  Jack !  " 

"I'm  getting  old,   that's  right,"  admitted  the 

pickle-maker.     "  I   feel   like  a  patriarch  already. 

I  don't  mind  getting  gray,  but  I'd  hate  to  get 

bald.     Any  signs  of  it  ?  " 

"  No,  the  hairs  of  your  head  can't  be  numbered 

yet." 

"  I  used  to  think,"  said  Murdoch,  "  that  a  man 
was  getting  ready  for  the  shelf  at  forty.  I  figured 
that  I'd  do  a  lot  of  things  by  that  time.  I  don't 
know  but  I  have  done  most  of  'em." 

"  Is  there  anything  you  haven't  done  ?  " 
"  Well,  yes."     He  gave  a  glance  at  Amy,  and 
[328] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

then  laughed.  "  The  little  girl  there  talked  me  out 
of  one  of  them — confound  her !  "  he  added,  affec- 
tionately. 

"  Oh,  if  one  of  your  theories  was  that  by  forty 
you'd  have  learned  how  to  manage  her !  "  Brad- 
ford's laugh  implied  that  Methuselah  would  have 
found  life  too  short  for  that  task.  But  both  he 
and  the  pickle-maker  knew  what  Murdoch  meant. 
There  was  something  irritating  to  a  potential  bene- 
factor in  the  way  Dr.  Craven  clung  to  the  presi- 
dency of  Carfax.  There  were  rumors  occasionally 
that  he  was  unwell,  during  the  winter;  but  they 
seemed  contradicted  by  his  acts  and  appearances. 
Certainly,  he  seemed  no  nearer  resignation  than  he 
had  been  a  year  before,  although  time  was  passing, 
and  Murdoch  was  nearing  forty.  It  occurred  to 
Bradford  that  Murdoch  would  possibly  not  find 
unwelcome  any  accident  which  should  disclose  his 
intention  to  establish  the  Murdoch  Fund. 

The  idea,  lingering  in  his  mind,  may  have  made 
him  less  guarded  than  usual  in  his  speech  that  night. 
He  had  a  caller — a  caller  who  wished  to  see  him 
personally,  the  maid  said ;  and  when  she  added  the 
statement  that  the  caller's  name  was  Barnes,  Brad- 
[329] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

ford  laughed.     He  went  out  and  grasped  Shedsy's 
hand,  and  led  him  to  the  den. 

"  My  wife  will  not  disturb  us  here,  old  man," 
he  said.  "  You  needn't  be  afraid.  I  have  her 
well  trained." 

Shedsy  grinned.  "  No  offence,  I  hope.  Haven't 
seen  you  in  a  d-deuce  of  a  while.  How's  every- 
thing? " 

"  If  you  mean  my  wife — she's  well,  thank  you. 
How's  all  with  you?  " 

"  Bully.  Slim's  f-fatter  than  ever.  I'm  worried 
about  Kate,  though." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Kate?  He's  a  loafer. 
He  never  comes  to  see  his  friends — any  more  than 
you  do,  old  Shedsy  Barnes." 

Shedsy  looked  worried.  "  I  wish  I  knew  what 
was  the  m-matter  with  him.  He  moons  and 
m-mopes,  which  can't  be  good  for  anybody." 

"Sick?" 

"  Kate  ?  "  The  idea  was  too  absurd  for  discus- 
sion. 

"  Maybe  he's  in  love?  " 

"  N-no,  he  isn't,"  answered  Shedsy,  confidently. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

[330] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY -GIFT 

"  Because  he  n-never  goes  to  see  but  one  girl,  and 
he  t-talks  about  her,"  was  Shedsy's  ready  answer. 
"  I  was  b-bothered  a  little,  thinking  it  might  be 
th-that,  so  I  asked  him  something  about  her,  and 
he  never  h-hummed  nor  h-hawed — which  is  a  s-sure 
s-sign." 

Bradford  dissolved  in  laughter.  "  Shedsy,  your 
ideas  are  aboriginal.  You're  out  of  date.  Keep 
up  with  the  procession.  I'll  bet  my  head  against 
a  penny  he's  in  love..  Who's  the  girl  he  goes  to 
see?" 

"  Miss  Craven." 

"  Oh — Marion?     Then  I  take  it  all  back." 

"  Think  she's  a  b-back-number  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  that  way  about  a  nice  girl,  Shedsy. 
I  think  she's  out  of  the  market,  that's  all.  She 
represents  a  past  generation,  like  the  college." 

"  You're  always  knocking  the  c-college,"  com- 
plained Shedsy.  "  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  it. 
Anyway,  it'll  be  many  a  long  day  before  we  get 
anything  else  here." 

"  I'll  bet  you — what  you  please — it  won't." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it?  " 

"  Want  to  bet?  " 

[331] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Murdoch  g-going  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
after  all?" 

"  What  makes  you  guess  that?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  They  s-said  so,  last  year ; 
and  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,  if  anybody 
d-did." 

"  Want  to  bet?  " 

"  You're  like  a  man  with  his  hands  shut,  wanting 
me  to  bet  whether  he's  got  a  d-dollar  in  them  or  not. 
I  won't  go  against  a  man's  own  game.  But  I'll  bet 
you  you're  bluffing,  just  the  same." 

"  Maybe.  But  Kate  is  lucky  to  have  got  his 
job  under  the  old  regime.  They  may  not  be  so 
easy  to  pick  up  after  a  while.  You  needn't  tell 
him  I  said  so." 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  Katherine  the  Shrew  could  g-get 
a  job  in  any  sort  of  w-weather,  Frank." 

"  He's  a  good  man.  But  this  thing  may  be 
bigger  than  you  think." 

"  How  big?  " 

"  What  should  you  call  big  money  for  a  college, 
Shedsy?" 

"A  million?" 

Bradford  laughed  once  more.  "  There  you  go 
[332] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

again  with  your  primeval  theories !  A  million  won't 
pay  the  janitors  in  a  modern  university,  let  alone 
the  professors.  Make  it  a  million  a  year,  why  don't 
you?" 

"  Who's  going  to  give  a  million  a  year?  " 

"  Nobody — till  he  gets  ready.  I  am,  perhaps. 
I  asked  you  if  you  wanted  to  bet?  The  proposi- 
tion's still  open.  You  don't  get  any  of  my  infor- 
mation for  nothing.  This  is  a  business  world, 
Shedsy." 

"  Go  on !  "  answered  Shedsy,  simply.  "  Let's 
talk  about  the  c-cushions.  You  put  on  a  swell 
front  here,  F-Frank.  You've  g-got  the  rooms  of 
that  dear  man  of  G-God,  Father  Clarges,  whipped 
to  a  custard." 

Yet  when  he  went  home,  and  found  Kate  pulling 
at  a  pipe  before  the  fire  in  the  rooms  of  the  Re- 
siduum, he  recollected  what  Bradford  had  said,  and 
retailed  it  to  Kate  with  gusto — save  the  part  of  the 
conversation  which  related  to  that  young  doctor  of 
philosophy. 

"  I'm  certain,  from  what  he  said,  Katherine,  that 
the  p-pickle-maker  is  going  to  give  a  1-lot  of  money 
to  Carfax." 

[333] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"How  soon?" 

"  That  I  don't  know.  Frank  d-didn't  say.  But 
soon,  of  course,  or  he  wouldn't  have  mentioned  it  to 
m-me." 

"How  much?" 

"  He  wasn't  d-definite.  But  he  talked  about  a 
m-million  a  year." 

"  A  million  fiddlesticks !  " 

"  He  offered  to  b-bet  on  it,"  said  Shedsy,  argu- 
mentatively.  "  And  by  the  way,  he  asked  me  not 
to  mention  it;  but  of  course  he  didn't  mean  you, 
since  you  were  his  b-best  man." 

"  There  were  those  rumors  last  year,"  said  Kate, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Must  be  something  in  it,"  said  Shedsy,  com- 
fortably. Kate  glanced  at  him  angrily,  but 
Shedsy  was  warming  his  hands,  quite  unconscious 
of  having  given  cause  of  annoyance.  "  N-nasty 
night,  out.  I  certainly  do  1-like  having  my  own 
fire." 

"  What  time  is  it?  " 

"  Only  nine.  After  all  F-Frank  told  me  about 
his  having  his  wife  t-trained,  do  you  know  what 
happened  ?  She  came  in  on  us ;  so  I  s-skipped  out. 
[334] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

She's  a  queen,  isn't  she?     Where  are  you  going, 
for  h-heaven's  sake  ?  " 

"  I've  got  a  headache,  and  I  want  some  fresh  air." 
"  Why,  boy,  it's  b-blowing  like  the  mischief,  and 
d-down  to  zero !  " 

"  I  don't  care."  Kate  went  out  into  the  cold. 
He  had  been  moping  and  unsocial,  as  Shedsy  said, 
and  he  felt  no  less  so  to-night,  since  hearing  Shed- 
sy's  rumor.  He  felt  useless,  incompetent.  What 
influence  upon  his  own  fortunes,  he  wondered,  would 
this  news  of  Shedsy's,  if  it  were  true,  as  it  probably 
was,  in  some  form  or  other — what  influence  would 
it  have  upon  his  fortunes,  and  the  fortunes  of  his 
friends,  the  Cravens?  Dr.  Craven  was  no  man  to 
have  the  spending  of  a  million  a  year.  He  would 
resign.  Kate  fiercely  resolved  that  he,  too,  would 
resign ;  together  they  would  go  away — where  ?  To 
what  ?  The  world  seemed  to  have  got  by  them  both 
some  way ;  they  represented  stagnation  in  the  midst 
of  progress.  A  society  on  the  watch  for  money 
in  the  mud  has  no  time  to  read  Greek.  His  thoughts 
were  indefinably  bitter  as  he  marched  along  the  icy 
sidewalks.  He  hardly  knew  why  they  were  bitter ; 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  railing  so  fiercely 
[335] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

against.  At  length  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
chilled,  and  that  his  errant  walk  had  led  him  to  the 
president's  house ;  and  he  rang,  feeling  a  dark  scorn 
of  himself.  Marion  Craven  herself  opened  the 
door  and  let  him  in.  "  Oh,  it's  you?"  she  said. 
"Want  to  see  the  dad?" 

"  No." 

"  Come  to  see  me — on  this  cold  night?  That  is 
good  of  you.  Sit  down  and  talk  to  me  nicely." 
She  took  the  piano-stool,  with  an  air  of  resuming 
some  occupation,  and,  as  he  said  nothing,  began  to 
touch  out  a  melody  dreamily.  The  notes  dropped 
one  by  one,  into  his  bitter  musings.  If  this  word 
was  true,  undoubtedly  they  meant  to  force  the 
president  out.  After  his  years  of  service,  they 
might  have  let  him  alone  a  little  while ;  perhaps  he 
would  not  have  annoyed  them  long!  But  no — the 
lust  for  size  and  notoriety  was  in  the  air,  and  the 
pickle-maker,  or  whoever  else  was  at  the  back  of  the 
plan,  was  only  like  the  rest  of  the  world.  A  man 
was  kept  as  long  as  he  could  work,  and  then  turned 
out  to  die.  For  himself,  Kate  thought  he  desired 
no  more;  but  Dr.  Craven  was  different.  What 
obstacle  was  that  in  the  way  ?  Kick  it  to  one  side, 
[336] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

said  the  world,  and  let  us  get  on,  for  God's  sake. 
The  obstacle  was  Dr.  Craven;  and  Dr.  Craven 
was 

"  You  are  unconventional  to-night." 

"  Yes.     I'm  feeling  a  little  blue." 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  about  it?  " 

There  was  something  in  the  tone,  far  more  than 
in  the  words,  which  unlocked  his  heart.  He  stood 
up — how  big  he  was! — and  came  toward  her;  and 
Marion  Craven,  to  whom  the  question  had  meant 
little,  saw  that  in  his  eye  which  made  her  look  down 
at  her  fingers,  picking  out  the  dreamy,  desultory 
tune. 

"  Yes.  I've  been  feeling  blue.  Do  you  know 
why?  Because  I'm  so  little  of  a  man,  and  yet  be- 
cause I — love  you  so  much." 

«Mr.  Strong!" 

"  I  know  I'm  presumptuous.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  honestly.  I'm  such  a  fool. 
Only,  I've  cared  so  much,  and  so  long,  that  when 
you  asked  me  just  now,  I  couldn't  help  telling  you. 
I'm  very  sorry." 

She  rose  and  faced  him.  "  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  saying?  " 

[337] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  know  well  enough.  I  haven't  any 
excuse  to  offer.  I've  wanted  to  say  it  a  long  time, 
though  of  course  I  know  how  preposterous  it  is.  A 
woman  like  you — couldn't  be  expected  to  care  for 
such  as  I.  Well — I'll  say  good-night.  I'm  sorry 
if  I  annoyed  you;  but  I'm  not  sorry  I  told  you. 
I  couldn't  help  it.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  for 
years." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her,  and  so  he  did  not  see 
the  wonder  in  her  eyes  change  slowly  to  a  light 
which  was  very  soft.  They  stood  a  little  apart, 
the  woman  young  at  thirty-five,  the  boy  old  at 
twenty-seven.  He  turned  to  go. 

"  I  don't  see,"  she  whispered,  "  why  it  isj — pre- 
posterous." 

At  that  he  looked  up,  and  saw  her  face. 

"  Wait,  wait !  "  she  cried,  breathlessly.  "  I  am 
— I  shall  be  thirty-six  my  next  birthday.  I  have 
been  engaged  to  other  men.  There  was  one  I — 
cared  about.  Can  you  take  me  on  those  terms? 
Can  you  take  an  old  woman — almost?  " 

He  only  stared  at  her  without  moving,  while  the 
fire  crackled  and  purred  in  the  stillness.     "  Do  you 
mean — you  love  me  a  little?  " 
[338] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

"  Not  a  little."  Her  hands  played  with  her 
chain.  "  Not  a  little.  A  great  deal." 

"  That  is  worth  waiting  these  years  for." 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly,  "  do  you  think  I 
have  just  begun  to  care?  Why,  why,  have  you  let 
them  go  by?  We  might  have  known  so  long  ago, 
before  I  was  an  old  woman — almost !  I  should  have 
stayed  young,  then.  Now  I  am  too  old  to  be " 

"What?" 

"  Kissed,"  she  breathed,  inaudibly.  But  Kate 
heard. 

They  sat  watching  the  red-gray  heart  of  the  fire, 
and  tried  to  realize  the  change  that  had  come  into 
their  lives. 

"  Just  a  little  while  ago,"  said  Kate,  "  while  I 
was  on  my  way  over  here,  I  was  thinking  how  harsh 
the  world  was.  And  now — "  He  left  the  sentence 
unfinished. 

"  Why  did  the  world  seem  harsh?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Because  I  was  not  man  enough 
to  ask  for  what  I  wanted,  perhaps." 

"  Was  there  nothing  else?  " 

He  hesitated.  "  Shedsy  had  brought  me  some 
news  I  did  not  like." 

[339] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

"  Yes,  you  have ;  a  double  right.  It  is  about 
Carfax  College." 

"Well?" 

"  He  says — it  sounds  a  little  wild — that  Mur- 
doch, or  someone  he  knows  of,  is  going  to  give 
Carfax  College  a  million  a  year." 

"What!" 

"  Of  course  it's  absurd.  But  there's  something 
in  it,  no  doubt.  Shedsy  had  it  from  Frank  Brad- 
ford to-night." 

She  looked  at  him,  half-frightened.  "  I  wonder 
if  dad  knows  ?  " 

"  No.     I  am  sure  he  doesn't." 

"Would  you  tell  him?" 

"  It  is  only  a  rumor." 

"  If  it  came  so  directly  as  you  say,  it  is  more 
than  a  rumor." 

"  That  is  true." 

"  Can  you  trust  Mr.  Barnes?  He  may  have 
misunderstood." 

"  Shedsy  never  misunderstands." 
[340] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

"  And  he  had  it  from  Mr.  Bradford  to-night?  " 

"  Yes.  What  object  would  Frank  possibly  have 
in  speaking  of  such  a  thing,  if  it  were  not  true?  " 

"  I  would  rather  tell  father  myself  than  have 
him  find  it  out  suddenly.  Did  he  say  when  the  news 
was  to  be  given  out?  " 

"  Soon,  he  thought." 

"  It  would  be  like  that  man  to  try  and  make  a 
sensation  out  of  it,"  she  said,  vindictively.  "  He 
cares  for  nothing  but  notoriety — he  and  his  pickles ! 
Look  at  those  billboards." 

"  Where  is  your  father?  " 

"  I  believe  he  has  gone  to  bed.  He  isn't  very 
well." 

Before  the  statement  had  left  her  lips,  the  door 
opened  slowly,  and  Dr.  Craven,  in  dressing-gown 
and  slippers,  appeared.  He  looked  very  old. 
Kate's  heart  was  stirred  again  with  a  rush  of  pity. 

"  Marion,"  the  president  said,  "  I  remember  that 
I  have  a  letter  I  must  send.  Will  you  transcribe  it 
for  me  ?  " 

His  daughter  looked  from  the  young  man  to  the 
old.  She  saw,  in  her  eager  fancy,  headlines  shriek- 
ing the  news  of  this  great  gift  to  Carfax  College ; 
[341] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

she  saw  her  father  surprised,  shocked,  upset  in  his 
feebleness.  He  ought  to  be  warned  of  this  chance, 
she  reasoned.  Her  mind  was  made  up  impulsively. 
"  Tell  him,"  she  said  to  Kate. 

"  Dr.  Craven,"  said  Kate,  hesitantly,  "  I  wish  to 
marry  your  daughter." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  interrupted.  "  I 
meant — never  mind.  It  is  quite  true,  daddy  dear. 
He  wishes  to  marry  me,  and  I  wish  to  marry  him. 
May  I?" 

Dr.  Craven  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  He 
held  out  his  hand  to  Kate,  saying, 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  I  will  get  your  mother  to 
transcribe  my  letter."  He  turned. 

"  No,  wait,"  said  Marion.  "  Mr.  Strong,  tell 
him  about  the  other." 

"  We  heard  a  rumor  to-night,  Dr.  Craven,"  said 
Kate,  obediently,  "  that  Marion — that  we  think  you 
should  know  of.  It  came  to  us  very  directly  that 
Mr.  Murdoch,  or  someone  he  knows  of,  is  about  to 
give  a  great  deal  of  money  to  Carfax  College.  The 
sum  mentioned  was  a  million  dollars  a  year." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Strong.  I  am  not 
[342] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

sure  I  heard  you  rightly.  Will  you  say  that  again, 
please? "  Kate  said  it  again.  Dr.  Craven  sat 
down.  His  daughter  took  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  A  rumor  only,  you  say  ?  I  cannot  believe  it, 
Strong.  Mr.  Murdoch  would  have  notified  us 
through  the  proper  channels.  He  is  a  trustee. 
These  matters  are  not  given  to  the  public  before 
they  have  been  acted  on  officially." 

"  We  had  it  from  his — from  Mr.  Bradford,  to- 
night." 

"  Is  it  possible !  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  What  a  gift !  What  a  college  we — they  will 
have,  with  that  endowment !  " 

"  They ! "  echoed  his  daughter,  in  irrepressible 
indignation. 

"  I  am  an  old  man,  my  dear,"  reproved  her  father, 
gently.  "  I  am — an  old  man."  He  looked  at  the 
thin  hand  his  daughter  held — a  scholar's  hand, 
long,  blue-veined,  wrinkled.  For  eleven  years  he 
had  been  Professor  of  Greek  at  Carfax  College, 
and  president  for  twenty-seven.  Yes,  he  was  an 
old  man.  Yet  he  had  not  before  realized  so  keenly 
[343] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

that  seventy  was  a  great  age.  He  had  always  in- 
tended to  resign  at  seventy,  and  so  secure  time  to 
finish  his  Commentaries.  Well — the  time  for  the 
Commentaries  might  come  sooner  than  he  had  fan- 
cied. 

"  They  will  never — "  began  Kate,  in  a  low  voice, 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  blasphemy.  But  Dr.  Craven 
was  rude  enough,  for  almost  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  to  interrupt.  "  They  will  never  ask  for  my 
resignation.  No.  I  do  not  believe  they  would. 
Mr.  Murdoch  is  too  kind-hearted  a  man  to  acknowl- 
edge the  inevitable.  But  of  course — if  this  news 
proves  true,  as  I  hope  and  believe  it  may — I  shall 
resign  at  once.  I  could  not  direct  the  fortunes  of 
such  an  institution  as  this  will  be."  He  lapsed  into 
silence. 

"  Father?  " 

"  Ah — what  is  it,  my  dear?  I  was  just  think- 
ing"— his  voice  trailed  off.  Thinking?  Yes;  he 
was  thinking  of  the  thirty-eight  years  which  he 
had  given  up  to  Carfax  College,  and  which  he  was 
now,  if  this  news  were  true,  to  leave.  Was  he  dar- 
ing to  repine?  Oh,  shameless  old  man,  selfish,  un- 
ambitious old  scholar  of  Greek,  to  receive  so  great 
[344] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

a  gift  in  such  a  fashion !     Minister,  where  is  your 
religion?     He  looked  up. 

"  I  am — a  little  tired.  I  think  I  shall  go  up- 
stairs, and  ask  your  mother  to  read  to  me.  Yes. 
What  a  day  it  will  be  for  Carfax,  will  it  not?  Car- 
fax will  expand,  as  Mr.  Murdoch  is  so  fond  of 
saying.  This  will  please  Mr.  Murdoch,  this  gift — 
will  it  not?  " 

"  Mr.  Murdoch  is  giving  the  money,  father." 
"  What  say  ?  Yes.  True.  I  had  forgotten. 
Still,  I  think  he  should  have  let  us  know  more  di- 
rectly perhaps.  Probably  he  intends  to  surprise 
us,  however.  And  now — if  you  will  excuse  me — 
I  feel  a  bit  tired.  Thank  you."  Leaning  on  his 
daughter's  arm,  he  climbed  the  stairs. 


Next  evening  the  pickle-maker  came  jubilantly 
to  the  dinner-table.  "  Hello,  kids !  "  he  cried,  com- 
prehensively, to  Bradford  and  Amy.  "  Had  a 
letter  to-day — guess  who  from  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  to  save  ourselves." 

"  From  the  old  doctor — Dr.  Craven.  He  wants 
to  know  whether  a  rumor  he  has  heard  is  true,  that 
[345] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

I'm  to  give  something  to  Carfax  College.  Apol- 
ogizes for  writing,  but  says  the  directness  of  his 
information  justifies  him.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
know  where  he'd  got  his  facts,  but  since  he  asked  me, 
I  wouldn't  deny  I  was  thinking  seriously  of  it; 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  it." 

"  You  told  him  that,  Uncle  Jack?  " 

Murdoch  nodded.  "  Wonder  how  the  olji  boy 
learned  about  it  ?  Either  of  you  been  saying  any- 
thing? It  must  have  been  Barrett.  He  pretends 
to  be  so  close-mouthed,  but  the  best  of  us  will  slip 
up  occasionally.  At  any  rate,  there's  no  harm 
done.  I  was  thinking  yesterday  we'd  have  to  make 
up  our  minds  to  it,  pretty  soon.  I've  mailed  the 
formal  letter  to  the  board,  tipped  the  wink  to  the 
papers,  and  I  guess  the  reporters  will  be  out  here 
to-night  like  wolves." 

"  So  Dr.  Craven  knows  about  it,"  said  Amy, 
thoughtfully.  "  What  did  he  say  in  his  letter, 
Uncle  Jack?" 

"  Nothing  much.  Just  wanted  to  know  if  his 
information  was  accurate.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
know  how  he'd  got  it,  but  that  he'd  got  it  straight." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  heard?  "  She  was  musing 
[346] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY -GIFT 

aloud,  not  addressing  anyone  in  particular.  Neither 
Bradford  nor  Murdoch  had  time  to  answer  at  the 
moment,  for  the  bell  rang. 

"  The  first  wolf's  at  the  door !  "  cried  Murdoch, 
gayly.  He  was  plainly  in  no  mood  of  reproach 
to  whoever  had  betrayed  his  secret. 

"  A  gentleman  from  the  Times,  to  see  Mr.  Mur- 
doch." 

"  Tell  him  to  wait.  I'll  see  him  in  twenty  min- 
utes." 

During  that  twenty  minutes  the  bell  rang  again 
four  times.  Gentlemen  from  the  Herald,  from  the 
Spy,  from  the  Eagle,  and  from  the  Globe,  were  also 
anxious,  it  appeared,  to  see  Mr.  Murdoch.  The 
city  press  called  him  up  by  telephone,  and  asked 
permission  to  send  a  man  out.  The  representative 
of  the  New  York  Sim  drove  up  in  a  cab  with  his 
deadly  rival,  the  head  of  the  Carfax  Bureau  of  the 
Associated  Press.  The  telegraph  wires  buzzed 
from  Maine  to  California,  and  Carfax  was  the 
centre  of  the  electrical  storm.  Had  the  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury  embezzled  all  the  funds  in  his 
possession,  and  fled  to  Murdoch's  house,  the  siege 
of  correspondents  could  scarcely  have  been  heavier. 
[347] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Ten  million  dollars  cannot  be  thrown  into  the  edu- 
cational pool  without  a  splash. 

Murdoch  was  in  his  glory.  "  Well,  boys,"  he 
began,  and  the  words  were  the  keynote  of  his  mood. 
Once  again  he  sang  his  psean,  but  this  time  to  the 
proxies  of  a  nation.  He  sat  lounging  in  his  chair, 
ostentatiously  careless,  smoked  a  cigar,  and  radi- 
ated content  and  enthusiasm,  while  they  plied  him 
with  questions.  Swimming  before  his  eyes  came 
the  massive  headlines,  while  he  answered  gayly. 
"  Another  of  you !  "  he  chuckled,  when  the  special 
correspondent  of  the  Journal,  the  American,  and  the 
Examiner  appeared.  "  Well,  have  a  cigar.  Funny 
what  a  stir  this  little  gift  of  mine  seems  to  make, 
ain't  it  ?  "  And  the  reporters  accepted  his  cigars, 
and  winked  at  each  other  when  they  had  time ;  and 
in  the  accounts  next  day  appeared  not  a  word  of 
his  unreserve,  or  his  zeal  for  advertisement,  or  his 
nai've  enjoyment  of  the  sensation  which  he  was  cre- 
ating, but  only  stately  phrasing  which  kept  him 
before  the  public  in  the  light  that  ought  to  halo  a 
benefactor  of  his  magnitude.  That  was  what  they 
did  for  him,  not  because  they  were  grateful  for 
his  heartiness  or  his  good  cigars,  but  because  it  is 
[348] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

the  policy  of  the  newspapers  of  America,  one  and 
all,  to  keep  up  our  illusions  as  a  nation.  The 
moment  that  we  publicly  admit  those  truths  which 
we  privately  confess,  two  things  will  happen:  the 
United  States  will  cease  to  be  the  butt  of  the  world's 
laughter,  and  it  will  begin  to  decay. 

Of  course  the  problem  soon  presented  itself,  and 
was  formulated  by  these  trained  questioners — what 
was  to  become  of  Dr.  Craven  ?  Murdoch  pished  and 
pshawed.  The  money  was  given  to  the  Board  of 
Trustees  without  conditions.  Dr.  Craven  was  a 
friend  of  his — a  personal  and  dear  friend.  What- 
ever was  done  would  be  done  decently  and  in  order. 
There  was  no  hurry.  And  the  scribbling  reporters 
noted  all  this  eagerly,  nor  thought  it  incumbent 
upon  them  to  mention  that  other  reporters,  ready 
to  scribble  quite  as  fast,  had  been  sent  posting  to 
Dr.  Craven  long  ago ;  to  the  members  of  the  Board 
of  Trustees ;  to  prominent  men  upon  the  faculty — 
everywhere  the  slightest  chance  of  news  appeared. 
The  newspapers  of  Carfax  are  not  unique  in  their 
methods.  Like  others,  they  leave  nothing  to 
chance;  they  discover  all  they  can,  by  hook  or 
crook ;  having  done  which,  they  guess  at  what  re- 
[349] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

mains,  and  publish  the  whole  for  truth.  Murdoch 
might  have  known  that  already  men  in  all  the 
offices  were  busy  with  a  list  of  possible  successors 
to  Dr.  Craven. 

That  was  not  a  wild  night  in  Carfax  newspaper- 
dom,  because  the  facts  were  all  easy  to  get,  and  no 
mystery  was  involved.  But  it  was  a  busy  night. 
And  the  headlines,  next  morning,  left  the  pickle- 
maker  but  little  to  desire.  Only  one  grieved  him, 
as  it  was  repeated  with  variations  over  and  over 
again.  "  President  Craven  to  Resign."  President 
Craven,  it  is  true,  had  refused,  with  stately  cour- 
tesy, to  consider  the  matter,  so  far  as  it  affected  the 
business  management  of  the  college,  until  he  had 
communicated  with  the  Board  of  Trustees.  It  was 
not  his  custom,  he  told  them  gently,  to  anticipate 
through  the  public  press  the  action  of  the  Board. 
This  gift  was  very  generous;  it  was  wonderful;  it 
might  be  epoch-making  for  education.  Further, 
however,  he  could  not  go.  So  the  reporters  and  the 
editors  went  alone.  "  Craven  to  Step  Out."  "  New 
Blood  for  Carfax."  "  Fear  that  President  Craven 
will  Resign."  In  one  way  or  another,  they  all 
suggested  the  next  step  of  that  progress  which,  in 
[350] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

Murdoch's  phraseology,  was  to  take  Carfax  College 
to  the  head  of  the  procession. 

Where  was  Bradford,  meanwhile?  Slipping 
into  his  coat,  dodging  a  reporter  at  the  door,  and 
making  his  way  as  fast  as  cars  would  take  him  to 
the  Residuum.  When  Murdoch  had  asked,  in 
passing,  "  Either  of  you  two  said  anything?  "  and 
when  Amy  had  wondered  how  Dr.  Craven  had 
heard,  Bradford  had  not  replied,  because  it  seemed 
to  him  impossible,  absurd,  to  suppose  that  his 
words  to  Shedsy  Barnes  the  night  before  could  have 
resulted  in  this  explosion.  Twenty-four  hours 
previously — less  than  twenty-four  hours  previously 
— he  had  hinted  at  a  possibility ;  could  his  hint  have 
been  transformed  to  certainty  in  that  space  of  time  ? 
The  idea,  he  told  himself  over  and  over,  was  in- 
credible. Yet  he  was  not  reassured.  Murdoch's 
attitude  toward  him,  if  his  words  had  really  been 
the  betrayal,  would  not  be  harsh — but  Amy's? 
Amy !  There  was  the  point  round  which  his  spec- 
ulations revolved.  The  click  of  the  car-wheels 
resolved  itself  into  a  maddening  iteration — What 
— will — Amy — say?  What — will — Amy — say? 
When  he  had  been  talking  to  Shedsy  the  night  be- 
[351] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

fore,  he  had  thought  only  of  Murdoch's  position, 
and  of  the  stunning  news  itself.  His  wife's  little 
query,  her  intercepted  glance,  suddenly  waked  in 
Bradford's  mind  a  thousand  fresh  possibilities. 
She  was  a — she  was  a  little  odd  about  some  things. 
Yet  what,  after  all,  had  he  told  Shedsy?  The 
barest  fragments  of  things — inchoate  hints,  at  the 
most,  quite  impossible  of  transformation  into  this 
complete  knowledge.  Moreover,  Shedsy  was  a  safe 
man.  There  had  been  the  Barton  case,  which  he 
had  known  the  secret  of ;  yet  he  had  never  dropped 
a  word  of  it;  the  case  had  gone  to  its  successful 
conclusion,  without  a  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  any- 
one that  Shedsy  knew.  He  would  not  mention  this, 
any  more  than  he  had  mentioned  that,  thought 
Bradford.  Wherever  this  information  of  Craven's 
had  sprung  from,  it  had  not  come  from  Shedsy, 
that  was  certain.  And  the  cars  clicked  off  their 
endless  repetition  as  a  sub-current  to  his  medita- 
tions —  What  —  will  —  Amy  —  say  ?  —  until  he 
reached  his  corner  and  swung  off.  Then  he  raced 
over  the  icy  walks,  sprinted  round  the  corner, 
dashed  up  the  steps  of  the  Residuum — and,  whis- 
tling a  careless  tune,  sauntered  into  the  Residuum. 
[352] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

Shedsy  was  sitting  there  alone.  He  looked  up  as 
Bradford  entered,  and  his  face  lightened. 

"  Hello,  Frank !  " 

"  Hello,  Shedsy !  " 

"  G-glad  you  came  up.  I  was  just  g-going 
down  to  see  you." 

"Anything  special?"  Bradford  strove  fiercely 
and  successfully  to  keep  the  keen  interest  out  of  his 
voice. 

"  Well,  yes.  You  remember  what  you  hinted  to 
me  last  night,  and  asked  me  not  to  mention  ?  " 

"  What  was  that,  Shedsy?  " 

"  Well,  about  the  money  for  Carfax,  and  so  on. 
Hey?  Well,  I  told  Kate.  He  told  the  C-Cravens. 
Now,  he  says,  it's  got  back  to  Murdoch.  I'm 
sorry." 

"  So  am  I,  Shedsy." 

"  My  G-God,  Frank,  don't  say  that !  T-tell  me 
it  don't  make  any  d-difference  to  you — can't  you 
t-tell  me  that?  Seems  to  me  I've  g-got  about  all  I 
can  stand  now,  what  with  K-Kate — "  He  broke 
off. 

"  It  won't  make  any  great  difference,  I  guess, 
old  boy.  Still,  I  wish  you  hadn't  told.  But  then, 
[353] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

if  the  milk's  out  of  the  pitcher,  why,  it's  out  of  the 
pitcher."  What — will — Amy — say?  The  click  of 
the  car-wheels  echoed  in  Bradford's  brain. 

"  I  never  thought  K-Kate  would  tell,"  ran  on  the 
boy,  eagerly,  his  face  lightening  again  as  Bradford 
passed  the  matter  off.  "  I  supposed  of  c-course 
you  would  tell  Kate  anything  you'd  t-tell  me,  since 
he  was  your  best  man,  and  all.  But  I  was  pretty 
b-blue  when  you  came  in.  I  was  just  going  d-down 
to  your  place  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"  It's  done  now,  Shedsy.  We  won't  say  any- 
thing more  about  it.  It'll  be  in  all  the  papers  in 
the  morning." 

"  N-no  ?     How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  There  were  twenty  reporters  at  Murdoch's 
when  I  left." 

Shedsy  groaned. 

"  Never  mind,  old  man.  Where  did  you  say 
Kate  was?  " 

"  G-gone  to  the  Cravens.  He's — "  Shedsy 
stopped  once  more.  "Frank,  I  swear. I'm  almost 
afraid  to  t-tell  you,  after  my  last  b-bull.  But 
Kate  said  it  wasn't  a  secret.  He's  engaged  to 
Marion  C-Craven." 

[354] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRtHDAY-GIFT 

"  Engaged  to  Marion  Craven !  " 

Shedsy  nodded  dumbly.  At  any  other  time 
Bradford  would  have  been  amazed  and  amused  at 
this  news,  but  to-night  the  questioning  rattle  of 
the  car-wheels  was  too  clear  in  his  hearing.  So  he 
sat  idly,  hearkening  and  fearing.  What — will — 
Amy — say?  Presently  he  roused  himself,  and  for 
ten  minutes  made  a  pretence  of  talk ;  then  he  got 
up.  "  Well,  old  man,  so  long." 

"  Don't  go,  F-Frank." 

"  Must,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

"  You — you  don't  bear  m-malice,  do  you?  I'm 
anything  you  p-please,  but  true  as  g-gospel,  I 
never  dreamed  the  story  would  g-get  out ! " 

"  Not  a  bit,  Shedsy."  Bradford  smiled,  and  if 
the  smile  were  feeble,  nevertheless  Shedsy  saw  it. 
When  Bradford  had  gone,  Edgar  Baker  Barnes  still 
sat  by  the  table,  drumming  with  his  fingers.  At 
length  Slim  appeared,  and  looked  at  him  over  his 
eyeglasses. 

"  What's  the  trouble,  Shedsy?  " 

"Nothing,  Slim." 

"  I  thought  you  looked  miffed.     Have  you  seen 
my  small  German  dictionary  ?  " 
[355] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Shedsy  shook  his  head.  "  I  reckon  there  were 
two  fairy  godmothers  'round  when  I  was  born," 
he  said,  irrelevantly.  "  One  says, '  I'll  give  him  the 
privilege  of  having  friends  and  being  mighty 
f-fond  of  them.'  And  the  other  says,  *  I'll  see  to 
it  that  he  loses  them  one  by  one.'  Well,  that  was 
about  a  stand-off,  wasn't  it?  B-but  I  tell  you, 
Slim,  the  second  one  g-got  in  the  right  c-counter. 
Yes,  sir,  she  g-got  to  me,  all  right,  old  boy."  And 
here,  with  Slim's  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  our  story 
leaves  Edgar  Baker  Barnes,  alias  Shedsy — a  good 
lad,  but  a  bachelor  from  the  cradle. 

Some  men  will  carry  unopened  all  day  a  letter 
which  they  fancy  contains  unpleasant  news,  and 
in  the  evening  open  it  suddenly,  read  it  steadily, 
and  laugh.  They  are  the  last  men  into  a  battle, 
and  the  last  to  leave.  Bradford,  instead  of  going 
home,  went  to  the  club,  and  in  a  quiet  corner  sat 
and  indulged  himself  in  gloom.  When  someone 
came  up  and  spoke  to  him,  he  forced  himself  to  be 
cheerful,  but  the  effort  was  obvious. 

"  Bradford  is  off  his  feed  to-night,"  said  the  man 
to  a  friend.  The  friend  chuckled.  "  Haven't  you 
heard?  "  he  answered.  "  Murdoch,  his  wife's  uncle, 
[356] 


MURDOCH'S     BIRTHDAY-GIFT 

has  given  ten  million  that  Bradford  was  expecting 
to  Carfax  College !  " 

The  man  grinned.  "  What  an  ass  Murdoch  is! " 
he  commented. 

Bradford  let  himself  into  the  house  at  midnight. 
The  last  reporter  had  hastened  down  the  steps,  and 
all  the  place  was  dark.  He  went  up  to  his  wife's 
room  without  hesitation.  Amy  was  asleep,  in  an 
attitude  characteristic  of  her,  her  cheek  resting  on 
her  hand.  He  stood  and  looked  at  her  a  long  time. 
What  would  she  say  if  she  knew  that  he  had  been 
the  betrayer  of  Murdoch's  secret?  At  last  he  went 
off  to  bed. 


[357] 


Chapter  Nineteen 

THE    INEVITABLE 

The  guesses  of  the  newspapers  were  confirmed  in  a 
few  days.  Dr.  Craven  handed  in  his  resignation  to 
the  Board  of  Trustees,  at  the  meeting  which  was 
called  to  accept  the  gift  of  the  Murdoch  Fund ;  and 
the  board  accepted  the  resignation  likewise,  and 
made  him  speeches  of  sorrow,  and  sent  him  a  framed 
memorial,  which  cited  one  by  one  his  services  to 
Carfax  College,  and  said  many  complimentary 
things  of  him  such  as  ought  to  console  any  old 
man  who  was  not  too  full  of  repining.  And  more- 
over, the  Board,  at  Murdoch's  suggestion,  made 
him  President  emeritus,  and  allowed  him  two- thirds 
of  his  former  salary,  which  had  been  four  thousand 
dollars  a  year.  Dr.  Craven  accepted  the  memorial 
with  calmness  and  the  honor  with  dignity;  but  he 
declined  to  remain  in  the  President's  house  until 
his  successor  should  be  elected.  His  wife,  however, 
[358] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

used  force  of  a  sort,  and  he  reconsidered  his  deter- 
mination, reluctantly.  And  all  Carfax  buzzed  with 
commendation  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Shakespeare 
Brand,  or  if  it  did  not  commend  it  abused  him 
roundly,  which  was  just  as  satisfactory  in  the  end. 
Meanwhile  Amy  said  nothing,  and  Bradford  waited 
for  her  to  speak ;  and  when  she  did  not,  concluded, 
at  first  doubtfully,  then  more  and  more  surely,  that 
she  knew  nothing  of  his  own  part  in  the  disclosure 
of  Murdoch's  intentions.  Indeed,  who  was  to  tell 
her  if  he  did  not  ?  Shedsy  she  never  saw ;  Kate  she 
never  saw,  and  Kate  was  not  the  man  to  mention 
such  a  matter  anyway.  So  Bradford  grew  less 
and  less  afraid,  and  presently  the  matter  dropped 
gradually  from  his  mind,  as  the  matter  of  the 
scar  had  done,  and  he  was  only  now  and  then  con- 
scious of  any  restraint  in  Amy's  tenderness  for  him. 
He  was  the  more  and  more  tender  with  her  as  her 
hour  came  on. 

One  Thursday,  two  months  after  the  announce- 
ment of  the  Murdoch  Fund,  there  was  a  rumor  in 
the  afternoon  papers  that  Dr.  Craven  was  stricken 
— one  said  with  paralysis,  one  said  with  some  affec- 
tion of  the  heart.  The  morning  papers  of  Friday 
[359] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

denied  both ;  the  afternoon  papers  of  the  same  day 
reaffirmed  the  rumor,  and  this  time  with  authority. 
On  the  following  Sunday  afternoon,  Carfax  Col- 
lege was  without  a  president  of  any  sort,  and  Prov- 
idence had  courteously  removed  an  old  obstacle  to 
progress. 

He  died  very  quietly.  "  I  am  sorry  to  leave  the 
Commentaries  unfinished.  Perhaps,  my  dear  boy, 
you  will  try — "  Kate  bent  closer,  but  the  Doctor 
left  the  sentence,  like  the  Commentaries,  unfinished. 
A  moment  later,  however, 

"  Why,  Isabelle !  "  he  murmured. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  his  wife  answered.  But  he  did  not 
hear  her.  "  Why,  my  little  Isabelle !  "  The  news- 
papers announced  his  death  the  next  day :  George 
Mark  Craven,  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of  his  age ; 
for  eleven  years  professor  of  the  Greek  language 
and  literature  in  Carfax  College,  and  president  for 
twenty-seven. 

Then  Amy  spoke. 


"  Francis,  why  did  you  tell  Dr.  Craven  about  the 
money  ?  " 

[360] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

"  I  didn't,  dear." 

"  You  told  Mr.  Barnes." 

"  Not  even  that,  Amy.  I  suggested  the  possi- 
bility of  it  to  him — but  I  never  thought  he  would 
mention  it." 

"Why  did  you  tell  him?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  didn't  tell  him,  Amy.  I  said  there 
was  a  possibility  of  a  change  for  Carfax,  and 
Shedsy  imagined  the  rest." 

"  Didn't  you  say  to  him  that  Uncle  Jack  was 
going  to  give  a  million  a  year  to  Carfax?  " 

"  No,  Amy,  I  did  not.  Why  do  you  cross-exam- 
ine me  like  this?  Don't  you  trust  me?  If  you  do 
not,  you  ought  to  say  so." 

Her  next  sentence  came  after  a  hesitation,  brief 
indeed,  but  very  long  to  Bradford.  "  Francis,  I 
do  say  so." 

"  Amy !  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  done?  "  she  went  on, 
with  a  calmness  terrible  to  Bradford.  "  I  have  lied 
for  you,  Francis." 

"  You  are  talking  wildly,  Amy.  You  ought  not 
to  excite  yourself,  dear.  Think  of  the  baby,  Amy." 

"  I  am  not  excited,  Francis.  But  I  must  tell 
[361] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

you  what  I  feel.  I  cannot  go  on  longer  as  I  have 
done.  Marion  Craven  told  me,  one  day,  that  you 
had  told  Mr.  Barnes,  who  had  told  Mr.  Strong. 
She  asked  me  to  thank  you  for  letting  them  know ; 
she  implied  that  Uncle  Jack  meant  to  surprise  them 
all,  to  let  them  know  suddenly,  without  warning. 
I — I  let  her  think  so.  I  did  not  tell  her  that  he 
had  kept  this  secret  for  a  year,  and  that  he  would 
have  kept  it  as  long  as  was  necessary.  You  know 
that  I  would  have  died  to  make  you  happy,  Fran- 
cis; but  I  did  not  think — when  I  told  you  I  loved 
you — that  you  would  ever  ask  me — to  lie  for 
you." 

"  You  are  hurting  me  very  cruelly,  my  wife." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  hurt  you.     But  we  must  un- 
derstand things,  Francis.     I  must  know  what  you 
intend  to  do.     Are  we   to   go   on — like  this— al- 
ways ?  " 
.      "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Am  I  to  feel  that  I  cannot  believe  a  word  you 
say?" 

"  Amy,"   he  said,   collecting  himself,  "  do  you 
know  that  you  are  talking  to  your  husband?     I 
think   you  do  not  quite   realize  all  that  you  are 
[362] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

saying.  I  cannot,  I  ought  not,  listen  to  you  any 
longer.  To-morrow  you  will  feel  differently." 

"  Will  Dr.  Craven  be  alive  to-morrow  ?  "  she 
asked,  coldly. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  consider  me  responsi- 
ble," he  demanded,  with  the  sensitive  quickness  of 
perception  that  was  always  his,  "  for  Dr.  Craven's 
death?  Why,  it  is  absurd."  He  tried  to  laugh. 
"  He  has  been  sick  for  years,  dear.  Go  to  sleep, 
now ;  to-morrow ' 

"  It  is  not  that,"  she  said,  wearily.  "  Perhaps 
you  are  right ;  perhaps  this  shock  did  not  hasten  his 
death.  I  do  not  know."  Bradford  could  not  help 
noticing  the  steadiness  of  her  sense  of  justice. 
"  But  all  the  other  things  you  have  told  me — you 
have  not  seemed  to  care  what  you  have  said.  Once, 
before  we  were  married,  someone  warned  me  that 
you  did  not  care.  I  did  not  believe  him;  I  hated 
him.  I  hate  him  now,  but  I  believe  him.  No, 
don't  try  to  stop  me.  It  is  better  for  both  of  us 
that  there  should  be  no  deceit  between  us.  I  have 
tried,  ever  since  we  were  married — ever  since  the 
very  day  after  we  were  married — to  disbelieve  him, 
but  how  can  I?  There  was  that  story  you  told  me, 
[363] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

the  first  time  you  came  to  see  me.  Afterward,  I 
found  that — it  was  not  true.  I  thought  mine  was 
a  bitter  sorrow,  that  night — but  I  did  not  know 
what  sorrow  was.  Then,  while  I  was  putting  that 
story  from  me,  fighting  it  off,  there  were  other 
things.  You  told  people,  at  dinner,  of  things  that 
I  knew  had  not  happened;  but  I  should  not  have 
minded  much — they  were  only  stories — if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  idea  I  was  fighting.  And  there 
were  times  when  I  had  almost  fought  it  down. 
When  I  knew  the  baby  was  coming  I  thought — I 
was  sure  that  I  had  been  all  wrong  to  mistrust  you 
in  the  least.  I  don't  know  why  I  was  sure,  but  I 
was.  Then — this.  You  promised  Uncle  Jack  that 
you  would  never  speak  of  it.  It  was  not  your 
secret,  any  more  than  it  was  mine ;  we  had  no  right 
to  speak  of  it.  But  you  did.  And  Uncle  Jack 
asked  you  if  you  had.  And  you  let  him  think  that 
you  had  not."  Her  voice,  monotonous  and  sad  as 
the  ticking  of  a  metronome,  ceased. 

Bradford,  suddenly,  surrendered.     Surrendered 
his  dignity,   surrendered  his   self-respect,   surren- 
dered his  pride.     "  It  is  true,  Amy,"  he  said,  under 
his  breath.     "  It  is  true.     I  told  Shedsy,  and  I 
[364] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

did  not  tell  your  uncle.  It  is  all  true.  But  can't 
you  forgive?  Don't  you  know,  dear,  that  you  are 
speaking  to  me  like  a  judge — not  like  a  wife?  I 
am  not  as  bad  as  that,  dear?  I  have  not  forfeited 
forgiveness?  Amy,  Amy,  my  Amy,  don't  you  see 
that  I  am  begging  for  it — Francis,  who  has  lied 
to  you,  but  who  loves  you,  loves  you ! " 

"  How  am  I  to  know  ?  "  she  cried,  quickly.  "  You 
say  so ;  but  how  am  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  You  mean " 

"  I  mean  that  I  do  not  know  whether  or  not  you 
love  me !  "  she  repeated,  sadly.  "  What  have  I  to 
assure  me  but  your  word  ?  " 

"  Love  knows  love,"  he  answered,  brokenly. 

"  Can  there  be  love  where  there  is  not  truth  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think,"  he  said,  humbly,  "  that  I  have 
deserved  this,  but  perhaps  I  have." 

It  was  as  if  they  had  changed  places.  He  was 
the  quiet  one  now;  while  Amy — Bradford  hardly 
knew  that  tense,  passionate  voice  for  hers.  "  Oh, 
I  have  loved  you,  loved  you ! "  she  cried.  She 
broke  down;  her  tears  came  in  a  flood,  as  if  her 
heart  was  broken.  He  took  a  step  toward  her,  and, 
as  if  she  divined  it,  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 
[365] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  she  panted.  "  Don't  touch 
me!  How  do  I  know  you  love  me?  You  have 
cheated  me  before — why  not  in  this?  What  am  I 
— your  mistress,  or  your  wife  ?  My  baby ! — Have 
you  ever  told  me  the  truth?  Are  you  in  earnest 
now?  You  say  you  suffer.  I  do  not  want  you  to 
suffer.  But  do  you  think  I  have  not  suffered  at 
all  ?  But  you  need  not  believe  me,  either,  now !  I 
have  lied,  too!  You  have  taught  me  all  that  I 
know — first  to  feel,  and  then  to  lie !  We  are  alike 
now ;  we  can  neither  of  us  be  trusted !  "  He  stood, 
quite  incapable  of  movement,  and  she  slipped  by 
him,  without  looking  at  him  again,  into  her  own 
room,  and  he  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 


How  odd  these  little  domestic  tragedies  are, 
which  play  themselves  out  quite  unnoticed  under- 
neath our  noses !  Smith  and  Mrs.  Smith  are  a  well- 
matched  couple,  are  they  not?  Mutual  respect, 
say  the  wise  ones  who  are  Watching  them — cool, 
gray  admiration,  not  the  fiery  red  of  love,  makes 
the  best  background  for  the  picture  of  comfortable 
married  life.  They  do  not  salute  each  other  rapt- 
[366] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

urously  on  railway  platforms,  they  are  not  miser- 
able out  of  each  other's  sight ;  but  then,  their  duties 
to  society  are  admirably  performed!  She  is  a 
careful  hostess;  and  how  excellent  are  the  cigars 
and  claret  of  Smith!  Really,  the  situation  is  one 
fortunate  in  all  respects.  Meanwhile,  after  the 
guests  are  gone,  what  dull  ghosts  of  misery  and 
pain  haunt  those  rooms  wherein  sit  separately  and 
in  shadow  the  admirable  hostess  and  the  excellent 
host! 

Murdoch  had  no  knowledge  of  any  break  be- 
tween Bradford  and  Amy.  Bradford  was  too 
clever,  Amy  too  strong,  to  be  detected  by  such  a 
straightforward,  unsuspecting  man  as  the  pickle- 
maker.  Had  he  known  of  the  trouble  and  its  cause, 
Murdoch  would  have  been  indignant — with  Amy. 
Bradford  pleased  Murdoch's  love  of  show.  Besides, 
he  was  not  sorry  that  his  gift  had  been  made  public, 
though  by  no  fault  of  his.  He  was  not  yet  forty ; 
he  was  barely  thirty-nine.  Carfax  College  called 
the  first  man  on'  the  list  of.  .eligibles,  and  he  came; 
stipulating  for  dictatorial  power,  and  promptly 
began  to  turn  the  wheels  of  progress.  He  was  al- 
most as  young  as  Murdoch — forty-one ;  he  looked, 
[367] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

as  much  as  Murdoch  did,  the  business  man;  he 
spoke  with  the  sharp  decisiveness  that  finds  no  time 
for  formal  courtesy ;  and  his  first  act  was  to  reduce 
the  salaries  of  most  of  his  staff.  Some,  Kate  among 
them,  resigned ;  others  were  married,  and  dared  not. 
The  name  of  the  new  president  was  Robinson — 
Horace  Robinson.  His  "  line  "  was  paleontology — 
or  was  it  petrology  ?  Well,  it  makes  no  difference ; 
and  his  salary  was  three  times  what  Craven's  had 
been. 

Bradford  lived  a  strange  life — the  loneliest  life, 
perhaps,  that  any  man  can  live.  Robinson  Crusoe, 
on  his  island,  was  not  always  lonely.  Bradford 
was  always  lonely.  Within  ten  miles  of  him  were 
a  million  people;  he  spoke  to  five  hundred  every 
day ;  dozens  called  him  "  Frank,"  and  not  one  knew 
him.  The  round  of  his  days  went  on  as  mechani- 
cally as  a  panorama — that  childish  kind  on  rollers, 
which  you  turn  with  a  crank.  He  did  what  was 
expected  of  him,  said  what  was  expected  of  him, 
so  ably  and  so  aptly  that  hardly  a  soul  in  Carfax 
ever  guessed  he  had  a  care.  Amy  was  all  that  a 
wife  should  be.  After  that  outburst,  there  was  no 
repetition  of  reproach,  of  course.  He  kissed  her 
[368] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

when  he  went  away  to  the  office,  and  when  he  re- 
turned. She  did  her  wifely  duties,  and  lived  her 
lonely  life,  like  his. 

Sometimes,  in  these  days,  the  remembrance  of  his 
father's  story,  as  it  had  been  written  for  him,  re- 
curred to  him  with  the  sharpness  of  a  sword.  This 
was  the  existence  his  father  had  led.  He  might 
have  hated  his  father,  he  thought  drearily  some- 
times ;  but  he  did  not ;  rather,  he  pitied  him.  The 
days  were  long  to  Bradford,  but  the  routine  of  the 
office,  the  crowd  of  little  duties,  kept  his  mind 
poised.  The  nights,  however,  frightened  him,  now 
and  then.  He  lay  wide-eyed  in  the  blackness,  and 
saw 

An  old-fashioned  stone  house.  He  was  asleep 
there,  quite  alone,  in  an  upper  room  reached  by  two 
steps  from  the  hall.  There  was  the  sound  of  a 
light  foot  on  the  porch  below.  It  came  along  the 
hall,  reached  the  steps,  and  stumbled;  someone  fell 
against  the  door  with  a  crash.  Bradford,  lifting 
himself  unsteadily  upon  one  elbow,  cried,  "  Who's 
there? "  but  not  like  one  expecting  an  answer. 
Quick  feet  scrambled,  the  door  hurled  open ;  there 
was  a  rush  across  the  room,  and  hands  at  his  throat 

strangled,  strangled. 

[369] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Again  he  was  in  that  house — a  house  he  had  never 
seen  from  the  outside.  He  was  sitting  in  the  upper 
room.  Suddenly,  at  the  sound  of  a  cry  without, 
he  rose,  and  moved  quickly  in  the  darkness  toward 
the  door.  He  had  forgotten  the  steps,  and  he  fell, 
with  a  sharp  pain.  He  could  not  move.  He  heard, 
in  the  void,  the  howl  of  a  dog — the  whine  of  deadly 
fear. 

Now  he  was  in  the  woods,  at  night.  He  came 
upon  a  clearing,  of  half  an  acre  perhaps,  lighter 
by.  contrast  with  the  velvet-gloomy  trees.  As  he 
stood  there,  he  saw,  at  his  left,  a  pair  of  silent,  fiery 
eyes,  so  near  he  might  have  touched  them.  He  fled 
from  he  did  not  know  what,  stumbling  on  and  on. 
He  fell  and  was  bruised,  but  he  rose  and  stumbled 
on.  The  night  and  the  woods  were  endless.  At 
last,  ahead  of  him,  he  saw  the  line  of  forest  break, 
and  knew  that  he  was  free  and  safe.  The  revulsion 
made  him  dizzy ;  but  he  drew  himself  together  with 
a  shout,  and  ran  toward  the  light,  and  came  upon 
a  clearing,  lighter  by  contrast  with  the  velvet- 
gloomy  trees.  Upon  his  left,  so  near  he  might 
have  touched  them,  he  saw  the  silent,  fiery  eyes. 

He  bit  his  lip  till  the  blood  choked  him,  and  he 
[370] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

knew  that  he  was  awake.  He  remembered  his 
father,  at  such  times,  and  wondered  if  he  were 
going  insane. 

Amy's  life  seemed  changed  less  even  than  Brad- 
ford's. She  read  and  sewed  and  dreamed  and 
waited.  The  spring  came,  and  turned  into  summer, 
bringing  the  anniversary  of  their  engagement, 
which  Murdoch  insisted  on  celebrating  with  a  cer- 
tain festivity.  But  Amy  had  an  excellent  excuse, 
in  her  condition,  for  avoiding  company.  In  June 
her  baby  would  be  born.  Amy  longed  that  it  might 
be  a  boy.  Not  only  with  the  old  craving  for  a 
man-child  from  the  Lord,  but — it  may  have  been — 
partly  also  because  she  was  afraid  that  a  girl  might 
suffer  too  much.  She  might  perhaps,  some  time, 
wake  to  the  knowledge  of  life,  and  then  lose  her  joy 
in  a  day.  Amy  used  to  wonder — as  all  women  do — 
whether  she  was  to  live  or  die.  There  is  no  pang 
in  the  wonder — only  dreamy  hope  and  dreamier 
fear.  She  did  not  care  for  the  baby  with  the  pas- 
sionate sacrificial  love  she  had  given  her  husband. 
Many  a  woman  loves  her  husband  because  he  is 
the  father  of  her  children.  Some  love  their  chil- 
dren for  the  father's  sake.  Such  as  the  latter  are 
[371] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

few,  very  few ;  one  or  two,  perhaps,  in  the  circle  of 
our  acquaintance.  Amy  might  have  been  one  of 
those  women.  But  now  her  heart  only  stirred  ten- 
derly when  she  thought  of  the  life  which  was  to 
come  of  her  life.  And  at  length  her  hour  was 
upon  her. 

A  moment,  while  the  doctor  and  the  nurse  were 
busy  without,  Bradford  slipped  into  the  room. 
Amy's  eyes  were  shut  as  he  looked  at  her,  but  she 
seemed  to  know  that  he  was  there.  He  bent  over 
her,  and  she  whispered, 

**  You  mustn't  stay." 

"  Mustn't?  " 

"  No.     I  do  not  want  you." 

She  might  have  struck  him,  and  not  approached 
that  cruelty.  "  Amy !  "  he  cried. 

"  If  you  stay,"  she  whispered,  "  I  will  speak  to 
the  doctor."  Her  husband  went  out  softly.  To 
the  nurse  he  said, 

**  My  wife  fancies  the  pain  would  be  worse  if  I 
saw  her  suffering."  The  nurse,  attributing  the 
dumb  pain  in  his  face  to  sympathy,  only  nodded. 

Hitherto  Bradford  had  clung,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, to  the  hope  that  his  wife  might  be  convinced 
[372] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

of  his  love,  and  come  back  to  him;  might  not  love 
him,  perhaps,  with  the  flush  of  joy  he  had  seen  in 
her  eyes  when  he  married  her,  but  might  love  him 
still.  To  cling  to  that  hope  longer  was  very  hard. 
She  did  not  want  him ;  she  would  not  let  him  try  to 
comfort  her.  She  did  not  want  him — that  was  it. 
Her  need  of  him  was  dead ;  he  had  killed  it  utterly. 
He  knew  that,  and  he  knew  that  never  had  he  loved 
her  and  needed  her  as  he  did  now.  It  was  strange 
to  him  to  think  that  he,  Francis  Bradford,  the 
clever  man,  could  be  so  helpless  as  he  was.  He 
wanted  his  wife,  and  she — did  not  want  him. 

They  brought  him  his  son  to  look  at  in  the  early 
morning.  His  wife,  they  said  with  satisfaction, 
was  doing  well. 


Sometimes,  as  she  lay  with  her  baby  beside  her^ 
realizing  him — sometimes  Amy  would  remember 
how  she  had  thought  of  him  before  he  was  born ; 
how  she  had  half-fancied  it  would  be  sweeter  for 
both  of  them  to  go  away  into  the  dark  together  at 
the  moment  of  his  birth;  how  she  had  wondered 
whether  she  really  wanted  anything  except  rest. 
[373] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

At  such  times  she  laughed,  or  else,  hating  herself, 
she  murmured  to  him  over  and  over,  "  I  did  not 
know,  I  did  not  know,"  trying  to  excuse  herself  to 
him  for  the  fancies.  "  My  dear,  a  baby  is  only  an 
incident,"  Marion  Craven  laughed  once,  when  Amy 
had  been  trying  to  explain  her  unconscious  treachery 
before  Boy's  birth.  "  You  mustn't  be  idolizing  a 
step  in  evolution,  you  know." 

"  He  hasn't  a  bit  of  a  mark  anywhere  on  his 
whole  body,"  was  Amy's  answer.  "  He  is  abso- 
lutely perfect." 

Her  joy  in  Boy  made  her  often  thoughtful  of  her 
own  mother,  who  had  only  borne  the  agony,  and 
hardly  tasted  the  happiness.  Amy  longed  to  be 
able  to  reach  out  her  hand  and  touch  her  mother's 
somewhere.  She  would  whisper  to  the  dark,  "  Can 
you  see  that  I  am  very  happy  now,  dear?  I  hope 
you  can  see  that."  She  dreamed  of  her  mother ;  and 
from  this  rose  a  strange  fancy  that,  when  Boy  was 
asleep,  he,  too,  was  in  his  grandmother's  sight — 
that  his  grandmother  was  watching  over  him.  Will 
it  be  believed  that  when  this  fancy  first  came  to 
Amy  she  experienced  a  quick  pang  of  jealousy,  and 
so  smothered  the  sleeping  Boy  with  kisses  that  he 
[374] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

woke — as  she  had  intended?  But  afterward  she 
grew  used  to  the  thought,  and  tried  only  to  sleep 
herself,  so  as  to  pass  the  time  away  until  she  might 
see  him  again. 

Boy  grew,  and  waxed  fat,  if  not  intelligent ;  and 
cried,  and  was  fed,  and  slept,  and  woke,  and  cried 
again.  There  is  really  less  excuse  for  the  mother- 
instinct  in  humanity  than  anywhere  else  in  the  ani- 
mal kingdom ;  not  a  kitten  or  a  puppy  but  is  more 
interesting  to  the  honest,  casual  observer  than  are 
the  very  young  of  humankind.  Boy's  great-uncle 
was  keenly  disappointed  in  him,  though  he  loved 
him  fondly.  It  seemed  to  Murdoch  that  Amy's 
baby  should  have  exhibited  some  appreciation  of 
the  world  by  the  end  of  the  second  day,  at  least. 
But  Boy  remained,  like  the  rest  of  his  kind,  stupid 
for  an  interminable  time.  He  had  no  other  name 
than  Boy.  Murdoch  was  fertile  of  suggestions, 
but  Amy  smiled  at  them  all — except  when  he  urged 
her  to  call  the  baby  Frank.  He  was  doing  that 
one  evening  when  Bradford  interrupted. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  that,"  he  said.  "  If  Boy  had 
been  a  girl,  I  shouldn't  have  wanted  him  named  for 
Amy.  There  is  only  one  Amy  Bradford  for  me. 
[375] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

Perhaps  Amy  feels  the  same  way  about  this."  He 
looked  at  his  wife,  greatly  daring,  thinking  that 
she  must  give  him  anyway  the  cold  comfort  of  an 
assenting  nod.  But  she  only  wrapped  Boy's  shawl 
a  little  closer  round  him  while  he  slept,  and  went  on 
looking  at  him.  Murdoch,  however,  who  was  used 
to  her  quietness,  supposed  that  she  agreed  with  her 
husband,  and  ceased  to  clamor  for  Frank.  So  Boy 
remained  only  Boy.  What  need  had  his  mother 
for  a  special  name?  She  had  thousands  of  names 
for  him,  little  inarticulate  murmurous  cries,  suited 
to  such  a  little,  inarticulate  bit  of  life  as  Boy. 

When  he  was  a  trifle  older  she  began  to  take 
pictures  of  him.  It  was  a  passion,  more  than  an 
amusement,  with  her.  She  took  pictures  of  Boy  in 
all  moods  and  in  all  attitudes,  but  by  far  the  fewest 
were  of  him  laughing.  He  seldom  laughed.  He 
was  more  like  his  mother  than  his  father  in  many 
ways,  but  especially  in  this  one.  You  might  play 
with  him,  and  talk  to  him,  and  sing  to  him — he 
watched  you  with  a  round,  unwinking  stare,  esti- 
mated your  value,  and  forgot  all  about  you.  He 
was  not  fond  of  strangers.  He  even  cried  when  his 
great-uncle  held  him,  to  the  annoyance  of  the  es- 
[376] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

timable  pickle-maker.  But  it  was  Bradford's  one 
bit  of  joy  that  Boy  loved  him,  and  would  go  to 
him  almost  out  of  his  mother's  arms.  Bradford 
did  not  care  for  Boy  as  he  cared  for  Amy — by  no 
means ;  but  it  was  his  nature  to  expand  to  the  love 
of  anything  which  loved  him,  and  so  he  expanded  to 
his  little  son.  Boy  was  very  near  to  Bradford's 
heart.  He  sang  little  foolish  tunes  to  him ;  talked 
broken  baby-talk,  a  thing  which  he  had  all  his  life 
despised  so  much  that  he  blushed  in  the  presence  of 
it;  he  carried  Boy  for  hours  against  his  shoulder, 
in  the  crook  of  his  elbow.  It  was  his  father  who 
first  showed  Boy  the  sunshine  and  the  trees,  the 
day  that  Boy  was  three  weeks  old,  and  swore  upon 
his  honor  that  Boy  had  laughed  at  sight  of  them. 
Yet  even  with  the  new  bond  between  them,  Bradford 
was  no  closer  to  his  wife.  Free  as  he  was  when  he 
was  alone  with  Boy,  he  turned  awkward  and  self- 
conscious  in  Amy's  presence.  Love  for  her  and 
contempt  for  himself  made  him  afraid. 

Well,  Boy  lived  six  months,  till  the  winds  of 

December  came  crying  from  the  north,  and  then  the 

baby  died  as  peacefully  as  he  had  lived ;  fretting  a 

little,  murmuring  a  little,  moaning  a  little,  and  so 

[377] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

off  to  sleep.  Of  what  use  were  those  six  months? 
Boy  had  never  said  a  word.  He  had  not  even  re- 
ceived a  name — the  little,  indistinguishable  atom 
among  myriads  had  never  even  been  marked  by  the 
individuality  of  a  name.  A  bit  of  a  breeze,  the 
ripple  of  a  river,  the  leaf  of  a  forest — that  was 
Boy.  A  little  grave,  some  pictures  and  some  little 
clothes,  and  the  ache  in  the  heart — those  were  the 
remembrances  of  Boy.  So  much  space  as  he  has 
been  given — why,  it  is  all  out  of  proportion  to 
Boy! 

When  Boy  had  been  buried  five  days  Bradford 
went  to  his  wife,  feeling  that  he  could  no  longer 
stand  the  life  he  was  living. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling !  "  It  seemed  as 
if  she  must  hear,  and  must  know  that  now  he  was 
in  earnest.  He  had  only  the  single  longing  to 
comfort  his  wife,  and  be  comforted  if  he  could.  He 
wanted  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  confess  his  fault 
over  and  over;  to  find  his  wife  again  above  the 
grave  of  his  son.  He  had  loved  Boy  so  sincerely, 
he  did  not  think  that  Amy  could  repulse  his  desire 
to  share  her  sorrow.  They  were  alone  now,  they 
had  only  each  other.  He  could  offer  his  wife  no 
[378] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

reparation,  he  could  not  even  promise  that  he 
would  always  be  what  she  would  have  him — trust- 
worthy ;  but  he  knew  that  love  demands  no  repara- 
tion, and  asks  no  promises,  choosing  rather  to  for- 
give seventy  times  seven.  All  his  feeling  rang  in 
cry. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  answered. 

"  Won't  you  come  back  to  me,  Amy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Francis.  Have 
I  ever  left  you?  " 

"  Can't  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Forgive  you  for  what?  " 

"  Amy,"  he  said,  unsteadily.  "  This  isn't  like 
you,  dear.  I've  not  deserved  this." 

"  I  am  too  tired  to  guess  what  you  mean, 
Francis." 

"  I  mean  that  I  love  you  so  much  I  cannot  go  on 
like  this!  If  you  have  made  up  your  mind  that 
you  cannot  care  for  me,  if  I  am  hateful  to  you,  as 
I  seem  to  be,  I  will  go  away  somewhere  out  of  your 
sight.  I  am  not  what  you  thought  I  was,  I  have 
confessed  it;  I  make  mistakes,  and  I  did  give  away 
your  uncle's  secret.  But  I  am  not  as  bad  as  you 
think  me,  Amy.  I  never  deserved  the  love  you  gave 
[379] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

me,  I  know.  But  no  more  do  I  deserve  to  have  it  all 
taken  away.  Is  it  all  gone,  Amy  ?  Don't  you  care 
for  me  at  all  ?  "  He  said  it  very  badly  and  halt- 
ingly, and  she  answered  him  at  once. 

"  You  speak  of  deserving,  as  if  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  love  you  or  not  to  love  you.  It  isn't 
so,  Francis.  I  never  made  a  resolution  about  you. 
There  is  something  dead  in  me,  that  is  all.  Once 
I  cared  about  things,  but  I  couldn't  let  anyone 
know.  Then,  when  you  came,  I  cared  so  much 
more  about  you  than  about  anything  else  that  I 
could  tell  you.  But  I  found  out  afterward  that  the 
man  I  loved  had  never  existed.  How  can  I  love 
another  one  when  he  asks  me?  If  I  could  have 
what  I  asked  for,  I  should  ask  that  Boy  might  come 
back  to  me;  but  he  can't  do  that,  and  neither  can 
the  love  I  had  once.  Why  should  you  ask  me  to 
forgive  you  ?  There  is  nothing  to  forgive ;  things 
happen  so,  that  is  all;  you  couldn't  help  being 
yourself.  Why  should  you  think  I  hate  you? 
Why  should  you  go  away?  You  know  that  I  ex- 
pect to  live  with  you  all  my  life." 

"  If  you  thought  your  love  for  me  would  come 
back,  would  you  pray  to  have  it,  Amy  ?  " 
[380] 


THE     INEVITABLE 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  wearily.  "  I 
don't  know.  What  is  the  use  of  talking?  " 

"  How  can  you  be  so  hard  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Hard?  "  she  repeated.  "  Am  I?  Isn't  it  you 
who  were  hard,  to  take  my  love,  to  take  everything, 
and  not  to  love  me?  Francis,  you  know  that  I  am 
made  all  one  way.  I  know  there  are  people  who  can 
make  allowances,  but  I  can't ;  I  must  trust  entirely, 
or  I  can't  trust  at  all.  If  I  could  I  would  believe 
that  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do,  and  I  will 
try,  if  it  will  make  you  happier.  I  don't  want  to 
be  hard."  She  broke  off  suddenly,  as  if  there  were 
no  more  use  of  words.  As  he  said  nothing,  she  got 
up  presently,  and,  going  to  the  window,  stood  look- 
ing out.  There  was  snow  on  the  ground.  He  knew 
of  what  she  was  thinking — knew  that  she  had  for- 
gotten his  very  existence.  He  fixed  his  resolution 
while  he  stood  there. 


[381] 


Chapter  Twenty 

THE    RECTOR    SPEAKS 

Clarges,  as  his  custom  was  on  Friday  mornings, 
sat  writing  out  his  sermon  for  the  next  Sunday. 
He  liked  to  fix  his  thoughts  by  setting  them  down, 
though  when  he  was  before  his  congregation  he 
did  not  always  adhere  to  the  words  which  suggested 
themselves  to  him  in  his  study.  On  this  particular 
Friday  no  words  would  come.  The  rector  was 
physically  spent.  The  previous  day  had  been  the 
twelfth  of  the  month,  and  he  had  fasted — a  private 
fast  he  always  kept ;  it  was  the  day  he  had  decided, 
years  before,  to  abandon  his  father's  business  and 
go  about  the  Lord's.  Unfortunately,  to-day  was  a 
fast-day  also,  and  Clarges  had  breakfasted  upon 
crackers  and  water.  He  was  used  to  rigid  sim- 
plicity, even  to  austerity  of  living,  but  forty-eight 
hours  on  crackers  is  not  conducive  to  easy  thinking. 
Besides,  his  brain  seemed  less  under  control  than 
[  382  ] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

usual.  He  could  not  keep  his  mind  off  Amy  Brad- 
ford, as  he  had  seen  her,  quiet  and  tearless,  at  Boy's 
funeral  a  few  days  before.  Clarges  was  used  to 
funerals,  and  accustomed  to  displays  of  sorrow 
hypocritical  and  sincere,  well-bred  and  uncouth, 
hopeless  and  comfortable;  but  Amy's  face  baffled 
and  troubled  him.  He  wondered  what  she  was 
thinking  of,  as  she  sat  listening — if  she  listened — 
to  the  words  which  rounded  off  the  life  of  Boy.  He 
wondered  how  she  had  found  life,  since  her  mar- 
riage. He  knew  that  the  death  of  her  son  had  hurt 
her  terribly,  but  he  knew,  too,  that  her  life  was 
before  her  still,  and  if  she  cared  for  her  husband 
as  she  had  cared  for  him  when  she  married  him, 
she  would  still  be  desperately  glad  that  she  had  a 
life  to  live  out.  If  she  did  not  care — Clarges  shiv- 
ered. He  could  not  help  fearing  that  in  such  case 
she  would  have  preferred  to  die  with  her  son. 

He  rose,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room,  thinking.  He  drew  out  a  pipe  mechanically, 
and  then  put  it  back.  A  queer  thing  about  Clarges 
was  that  he  never  smoked  when  he  was  alone. 
From  Amy  his  thoughts  drifted  to  her  husband. 
Once  he  had  supposed  that  when  Bradford  and  his 
[383] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

wife  found  each  other  out,  as  they  must  some  day, 
the  suffering  would  all  be  Amy's.  He  had  antici- 
pated for  Bradford  only  anger  and  disenchantment 
when  he  discovered  that  his  wife  was  the  stronger 
of  the  two.  Once  he  had  expected  that  conceit 
would  come  to  Bradford's  assistance,  and  shield 
him  from  any  unpleasant  shock.  But,  as  the  year 
had  gone  by,  and  he  had  had  glimpses  of  Brad- 
ford's attitude  toward  Amy,  Clarges  doubted 
whether  matters  were  to  be  arranged  so  easily  for 
Amy's  husband.  When  the  break  came,  as  it  must 
come,  Clarges  suspected  that  both  would  be  hurt. 

The  little  girl  who  acted  as  maid  to  the  clergy- 
house  of  St.  Hilda's  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  to  see  you,  Father." 

"Who  is  he,  Norah?" 

"  I  asked  him,  Father,  and  he  said  just  to  tell 
you  a  gentleman." 

"  I  must  know  who  he  is.  If  he  won't  give  his 
name,  tell  him  I'm  busy." 

She  retired,  and  came  back  with  a  card,  on  which 
was  written,  "  I.  H.  S." 

Clarges  turned  the  card  over  and  over  in  his 
fingers.  Why  had  the  man  not  sent  up  his  name? 
[384] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

Why  this  curious  appeal  ?  "  Show  him  up,  Norah," 
he  said.  He  sat  down  hastily,  filled  his  pipe,  and 
was  smoking  when  Bradford  entered.  He  rose, 
however,  and  shook  hands. 

"  Have  a  chair.     Pipe  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

The  rector,  looking  at  Bradford,  was  astonished. 
The  younger  man  had  aged,  in  a  week,  so  that  he 
seemed  the  elder.  They  sat  without  speaking  for 
five  minutes ;  then  Bradford  said,  abruptly, 

"  Do  you  know  what  I'm  here  for?  " 

Clarges  looked  at  the  card,  which  he  still  held, 
but  said  nothing.  Had  the  break  come,  then? 

"  You  know  what  sort  of  a  man  I  am,  don't 
you  ?  "  said  Bradford,  bitterly.  "  You've  known 
ever  since  the  first  time  we  met,  haven't  you  ?  And 
you  haven't  always  kept  the  knowledge  to  yourself, 
have  you?  Yes;  I  mean  you  have  told  my  wife. 
Never  mind.  God  knows  I'm  past  bearing  malice. 
Sometimes  I  think  you  even  did  me  a  service.  She 
was  so  set  on  hating  you,  and  proving  you  wrong, 
that  she  didn't  find  me  out  as  soon  as  she  would 
have,  otherwise.  Well,  I've  come  to  give  you  the 
satisfaction  of  a  confession." 
[385] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  You'd  better  lie  down,"  said  the  rector.  "  I 
don't  believe  you're  well." 

"  I'm  perfectly  well,  thanks.  I'm  as  well  as  I 
ever  shall  be.  Sit  down.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about." 

Clarges,  studying  his  guest,  sat  still  as  he  was 
ordered. 

"  You've  always  known  I  wasn't — well,  not  quite 
certain  about  the  truth,  haven't  you?  Don't 
trouble  to  answer.  I  know  what  you  think.  You 
saw  through  me  the  first  time  we  met.  You  didn't 
like  me,  on  account  of — well,  you  know;  but  be- 
sides that,  you  understood  me.  Few  men  do;  I'm 
too  clever  for  most  of  them.  I  always  wondered 
how  you  knew."  He  stopped  a  moment ;  the  rector 
did  not  take  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  but  the  smoke 
ceased  to  curl  up  from  the  bowl. 

"  Did  you  ever  guess,"  Bradford  went  on,  "  that 
once  in  a  while  I  was  actually  deceiving  myself, 
as  well  as  other  people?  I  don't  suppose  that  such 
a  subtlety  appeals  to  your  nature.  You're  like — 
you're  the  sort  of  man  that  knows  exactly  what  he 
believes,  and  that  finishes  it.  Perhaps  I've  fooled 
and  lied  so  long,  I'm  denied  your  exalted  point  of 
[  386  ] 


THE  RECTOR  SPEAKS 
view ;  but  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  try  for  it,  for 
a  little  while.  I've  set  out  to  be  absolutely  honest 
for  the  time  I've  got  left ;  and  this  that  I'm  telling 
you  is  the  first  instalment  of  my  honesty.  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  a  straightforward  question,  too — 
something  I've  never  done  before.  You  were  in 
love  with  my  wife,  of  course ;  that  was  plain  enough ; 
why  did  you  try  to  make  up  to  me?  You  never 
disguised  the  fact  that  you  saw  through  me,  but 
you  did  run  after  me  for  a  while.  What  was  that 
for?  " 

"  Because  I  loved  your  wife,  as  you  say ;  though 
she  was  not  your  wife  then." 

"Well?" 

"  I  thought  I  knew  what  kind  of  a  man  you 
were,  but  I  wanted  to  make  sure." 

"Why?" 

"  I  thought,  if  I  was  right,  there  was  probably 
unhappiness  ahead  for  her;  and  I  loved  her,  and 
should  have  liked  to  have  saved  her  from  it." 

"  It   would   have   been   a   d d    sight   better 

for  all  of  us  if  you  had  married  her,  instead  of 
me." 

"  I  never  should  have  married  her." 
[  387  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  You  would  have  if  you  could." 

"  No." 

"  You  asked  her  once,  you  know.  Don't  lie, 
Father ;  leave  that  to  me." 

"  Yes,  I  asked  her.  But  I  knew  my  case  was 
hopeless ;  if  I  had  not  known  that,  I  shouldn't  have 
asked  her." 

Bradford  frowned.  "  You  talk  riddles.  Don't 
make  me  lose  my  faith  in  you,  too." 

The  rector  laid  his  pipe  upon  the  table.  The 
amber  mouth-piece  was  half -bitten  through.  "Your 
faith  in  me  ?  " 

"  You  married  me ;  you  buried  my  baby.  You're 
my  minister,  by  the  conventions.  Let  me  ask  you  a 
question.  Do  you  believe  in  a  God  ?  " 

Clarges  nodded. 

"  A  heaven,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  a  hell?" 

"  Here,"  said  Clarges,  but  inaudibly,  and  the 
jet  Christ  quivered  on  his  breast. 

"  Complete  outfit  of  terms,"  laughed  Bradford, 
disagreeably.  "  Well,  minister,  that  God  of  yours 
has  scored  off  me." 

[388] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

"  Look  here,"  repeated  Clarges,  watching  him 
narrowly,  "  don't  you  know  you're  not  well?  " 

"  I  shall  be  well  enough  by  to-morrow,  minister." 

Clarges  went  to  a  drawer  and  fetched  a  flask  and 
glass.  "  Drink  this." 

"  I  never  touch  it,  minister.  Don't  you  know  I 
have  no  vices?  " 

Suddenly  Clarges  crossed  to  him,  and  put  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Poor  lad !  "  he  said,  softly. 
"  Oh,  poor  lad ! "  Bradford  laid  his  head  upon 
his  arms,  and  a  dry,  tearless  sob  escaped  him. 

"  She  doesn't  think  I  love  her,  Father,"  he  said, 
pitifully.  "  She  doesn't  believe  I  love  her !  " 

The  rector's  lips  worked  curiously,  as  he  stood 
looking  down.  He  licked  them  with  his  tongue, 
like  a  man  afraid.  Bradford  and  he  had  never 
liked  each  other,  and  he  did  not  like  Bradford  now, 
but  he  was  sorry  for  him.  Bradford  knew  that, 
and  was  a  little  comforted.  Strong  men  despise 
pity ;  weak  men  only  profess  to,  and  crave  it  when 
the  strain  comes. 

"  Frank,"  said  the  rector,  "  you  have  just  said 
that  by  the  conventions  I  am  your  minister.  You 
know,  too,  that  once  I  tried  to  tell  your  wife,  be- 
[389] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

fore  she  was  your  wife,  what  I  thought  about  you. 
May  I  go  and  tell  her  what  I  think  now  ?  " 

"  You  believe  that  I  love  her?  " 

"  God  help  you !     Yes,  I  believe  you  do." 

"  She  doesn't." 

"  May  I  talk  to  her?     You  said  you  had  faith  in 
me." 

"  What  good  will  it  do?    You  don't  think  I  came 
here  this  morning  for  that?  " 

"  No.     And  I  may  do  no  good.     But " 

"  Speak  to  her  if  you  want.     When  shall  you 
see  her?  " 

"  This  afternoon." 

Bradford  hesitated.  Then  he  drew  a  letter 
from  his  breast-pocket.  "  When  you've  said  all 
you  can,  give  her  this.  I've  always  tried  to  keep  it 
out  of  her  sight ;  but  now  it  can't  do  me  any  harm, 
at  least.  Give  it  to  her,  and  tell  her  to  burn  it;  I 
sha'n't  need  it  any  longer.  Good-by,  Clarges.  I 
must  go  to  the  office.  I  have  my  work  to  do,  you 
know.  I  was  on  my  way  when  I  thought  of  you, 
and  just  decided  to  try  my  new  honesty.  Come 
and  see  me  at  three.  I  will  wait  till  then.  But  you 
will  fail."  He  went  away,  nevertheless,  with  a 
[390] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

little  flicker  of  hope  in  his  heart — the  hope  of  the 
drowning  man  when  he  sees  the  straw. 

Clarges,  left  alone,  did  not  return  to  his  sermon, 
but  walked  up  and  down,  thinking  over  what  he  had 
heard,  and  what  he  meant  to  say  to  Amy.  He  had 
no  doubt  that  Bradford  was  in  earnest.  His  last 
scrap  of  hesitation  vanished  just  before  he  put  his 
hand  on  Bradford's  shoulder,  and  offered  to  speak 
to  his  wife.  He  wondered  if  she  would  receive  him 
at  all,  or  listen  to  him.  He  thought  she  would — 
though  she  had  once  ordered  him  never  to  speak  to 
her  again.  To  disobey  her  now  was  only  another 
penance  that  he  inflicted  on  himself ;  he  was  always 
inflicting  them,  of  one  sort  and  another.  But  to 
plead  for  her  husband  he  needed  his  brain  clear, 
so  he  rang  for  Norah  and  ordered  a  luncheon.  She 
was  puzzled,  since  it  was  a  fast-day;  but  she  was 
used  to  the  vagaries  of  Father  Clarges,  and  would 
cheerfully  have  cut  off  her  little  nose  and  served  it 
to  him  on  Good  Friday  had  she  fancied  he  wanted 
it.  Servants,  children,  and  dogs  adored  Clarges; 
shopmen  and  his  curates  disliked  him.  Both  feel- 
ings were  certificates  of  good  character. 

He  saw  Amy,  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  same  little 
[391] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

table  where  he  had  seen  her  months  before  and 
found  out  certainly  that  she  disliked  him.  As  at 
the  former  time,  she  was  reading;  but  he  did  not 
take  the  book  from  her  hand,  nor  did  she  give  him 
cause  to.  She  had  the  same  steady,  empty  look 
upon  her  face  that  she  had  borne  at  the  baby's 
funeral — a  look  which  any  careless  person  might 
have  translated  as  meaning  that  she  did  not  care ; 
there  had  been  plenty  to  give  it  just  that  interpre- 
tation. It  must  be  confessed  that  Amy  was  not 
popular.  The  look  had  hitherto  baffled  Clarges, 
but  he  thought  he  held  the  key  now  to  her  heart 
as  well  as  her  character,  and  so  he  understood  it. 

He  blessed  the  good  fortune  which  made  pre- 
liminaries unnecessary  with  Amy,  and  began  at  once 
to  tell  her  of  his  morning's  interview  with  her  hus- 
band. He  told  it  very  calmly,  but  very  earnestly, 
speaking  more  rapidly  than  she  had  ever  heard  him 
speak  before. 

**  Frank  is  in  a  very  desperate  condition,  Mrs. 
Bradford,"  he  said.  "  He  is  possessed  of  the  idea 
that  he  cannot  make  you  believe  he  loves  you;  he 
is  quite  hopeless  of  proving  it  to  you ;  and  the 
worry  over  it  is  killing  him." 
[  392  ] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

She  listened  without  answering. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will  be  responsible  for  his 
acts,"  went  on  the  rector,  slowly,  "  unless  his  mind 
is  relieved  in  some  way." 

"  He — my  husband — asked  you  to  tell  me  this  ?  " 

"  No.  I  offered.  I  remembered  very  well  that 
you  had  once  asked  me  never  to  speak  to  you  again. 
You  know  that  I  would  not,  if  I  could  help  it, 
offend  you.  So  you  can  judge  whether  I  think  this 
matter  serious." 

"  And  what  did  he  and  you  agree  that  I  was  to 
say  to  you,  Father  Clarges  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  that  my  coming  would  do  no  good. 
He  told  me  that  you  were  so  thoroughly  sure  of 
your  own  righteousness,  that  you  had  no  room  for 
kindness  in  your  heart.  No;  he  did  not  use  those 
words,  Mrs.  Bradford.  He  did  not  even  think  them. 
But  if  it  is  true  that  you  are  to  answer  me  as  he 
said  you  would,  then  those  words  are  true  of  you." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  him  that  you  love  him, 
whether  you  do  or  not.  You  can  save  his  mind  in 
no  other  way,  Mrs.  Bradford." 

"  It  would  do  no  good,"  she  answered,  impa- 
[393] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

tiently.  "  He  would  only  look  at  me,  and  he 
would  know  what  I  was  thinking  of  him.  He 
always  knows  what  I  am  thinking  of  him.  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  give  you  the  message  you  want,  since 
you  think  his  condition  requires  it.  But  it  would 
do  no  good." 

"And  you  do  not  think  he  cares  for  you  ?  I  re- 
member very  well,  I  tell  you,  what  I  said  to  you 
once,  in  this  house,  about  Frank  Bradford.  I  am 
not  forgetting  it  when  I  assure  you  that  if  I  ever 
saw  love  for  a  woman  in  a  man's  heart,  or  heard  it 
in  his  voice,  I  saw  it  and  heard  it  to-day." 

"  You  saw  it?  You  heard  it?  "  she  repeated. 
"  Father  Clarges,  you  do  not,  you  cannot  under- 
stand either  of  us.  You  understand  me  better  than 
you  do  my  husband ;  so,  perhaps,  since  he  has  chosen 
to  confide  in  you,  I  may  do  the  same.  How  can 
you  tell  what  my  husband  feels?  It  is  quite  im- 
possible, because — he  does  not  feel.  It  is  all  acting 
— acting.  I  am  sure  that  when  he  talked  to  you 
this  morning  he  was  in  earnest — yes,  I  am  just  as 
sure  of  that  as  I  am  that  a  little  while  from  now 
he  will  not  be  in  earnest  over  me,  but  over  something 
else.  How  can  you  tell?  You  cannot  understand 
[394] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

at  all.  My  husband  is  never  himself,  he  is  the  man 
that  other  people  are  expecting  him  to  be.  Once  I 
told  you  I  did  not  like  you,  and  it  was  quite  true. 
It  is  quite  true  still.  I  think  you  care  too  little  for 
anybody  to  deserve  liking.  I  think  that  you  are 
hard  and  selfish.  But  at  least  you  are  honest. 
You  live  your  own  life,  not  a  thousand  other  lives. 
So  you  cannot  understand  my  husband." 

"  I  think  I  understand  him  far  better  than  you 
do,  Mrs.  Bradford.  I  will  tell  you  why,"  he  added. 
She  did  not  speak. 

"  Amy,"  he  said,  going  back  to  his  old  address. 
"  Amy,  years  ago  there  was  a  young  fellow  in 
college  with  me  who  was  very  like  your  husband. 
He  not  only  wondered  what  other  people  thought 
of  him,  but  he  would  do  and  say  things  to  make 
them  think  of  him.  If  he  was  applied  to  for  in- 
formation, he  often  gave  it  whether  he  had  it  or 
not,  rather  than  show  ignorance;  and  he  lied  to 
fill  gaps.  I  don't  know  whether  you  would  call 
it  lying;  it  was  done  almost  unconsciously.  He 
was  simply  swept  on  by  this  desire  of  his  to  be 
noticed,  and  carried,  often,  very  much  farther  than 
he  meant.  Then,  one  day,  his  eyes  were  opened 
[395] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

to  himself.  I  needn't  tell  you  how;  but  it  was  a 
bitter  day  for  him.  He  saw  himself  just  as  he 
was,  a  sounding-board  and  no  more.  He  hated 
himself.  He  was  not  a  bad  man,  not  even  a  very 
weak  one ;  and  he  tried  to  reform.  He  tried  to  be 
exactly  himself,  and  say  exactly  what  he  felt,  at  all 
times.  But  he  soon  found  that  he  was  failing. 
He  was  still  exaggerating,  adapting — in  a  word, 
lying.  Do  you  know  what  he  did?  He  took  refuge 
in  eccentricity.  He  had  tried  to  cure  his  fault,  and 
failed;  very  well,  he  thought,  then  he  would  be  re- 
venged on  himself.  Whenever  he  became  aware 
that  he  was  wondering  what  anybody  thought  of 
him  he  turned  rude  and  harsh.  Of  course  that 
alienated  the  people.  So  he  became  friendless ;  I 
won't  say  unpopular,  because  there  were  certain 
qualities  about  him  which  made  him  necessary  to 
the  college  life ;  but  friendless.  He  was  very  lonely. 
He  found  life  very  miserable.  But,  like  all  men  of 
his  temperament,  he  was  an  excellent  actor,  and  he 
did  not  show  his  misery.  So  gradually  he  won  a 
reputation  for  himself  as  a  rude,  clever,  solitary 
man,  who  cared  nothing  for  the  applause  of  any- 
body ;  refused  it ;  had  no  use  for  it.  So  the  ap- 
[396] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

plause  followed  him.  When  he  saw  that  he  turned 
more  unsocial  still,  and  it  followed  him  more  in- 
sistently. If  he  had  been  a  dull  man,  or  a  weak 
man  in  other  ways,  this  mightn't  have  happened! 
but  he  was  not  dull  or  weak — except  in  this  one 
thing. 

When  he  left  college,  he  cast  about  for  a  pro- 
fession. He  still  had  the  idea  that  he  must  keep 
himself  under ;  so  he  decided  on  the  profession  that 
subjugates  a  man  most  to  the  service  of  other  peo- 
ple. That  is  the  ministry.  This  man  undertook  the 
training  and  learned — many  things.  He  learned 
that  his  theological  school  was  a  school  for  scandal ; 
that  gossip  and  triviality  of  thought  and  meanness 
flourished  in  it,  such  as  the  few  noble  men  labored 
in  vain  to  root  out ;  that  the  study  was  not  theology, 
but  diplomacy,  and  cheap  diplomacy  at  that.  Yes, 
he  was  disillusioned;  but  he  went  through  it,  and 
entered  the  church.  The  same  popularity  followed 
him.  He  knew  that  he  was  looking  for  it,  and  at 
heart  craving  it;  so  he  adopted  the  same  repres- 
sive policy  as  before ;  and,  as  before,  his  popularity 
only  increased.  He  became  well  known,  and  gained 
a  large  church.  That  was  seven  or  eight  years  ago. 
[397] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

What  is  he  now?  The  same  man — the  same  man 
he  was  years  ago  in  college — conscious  still,  in  every 
nerve  and  fibre  of  him,  of  the  opinions  around 
him;  eager  to  be  noticed;  and  an  actor  in  every- 
thing he  does.  He  would  do  this,  and  therefore  he 
does  the  other  thing.  He  would  like  to  be  the 
centre  of  a  group,  so  he  plays  the  hermit.  He 
would  rather  be  thought  saintly,  so  he  smokes  his 
pipe  in  people's  company,  and  treads  on  their  pet 
ideas.  He  has  got  his  reputation,  now,  just  as  he 
had  it  in  college.  People  think  him  rude,  selfish, 
and  honest.  He  is  in  reality  rude,  selfish,  and  as 
disingenuous  as  a  man  can  be.  You  say  I  do  not 
understand  your  husband,  Amy?  I  tell  you  I  un- 
derstand him  as  you  never  can,  for  I  have  been 
through  the  dark  places  before  him.  I  understood 
him  when  he  came  to  see  me  to-day.  He  has  been 
what  God  made  him,  and  he  is  bitterly  punished 
for  it.  I  thought  once  7  had  tasted  a  little  agony, 
but  I  see  now  that  I  never  did.  I  told  you  that  I 
remembered  what  I  had  said  to  you  here  one  day. 
I  do  not  take  back  a  word  of  it.  I  told  you  then 
that  I  should  not  ask  you  to  marry  me,  if  I  dreamed 
you  would.  You  thought  I  was  only  insulting 
[398] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

you.  Do  you  see  now  what  I  meant  ?  I  was  afraid 
for  us,  as  I  was  afraid  for  you  and  your  husband. 
But  I  tell  you  this  to-day :  you  may  not  love  your 
husband — that  I  know  nothing  of — but  that  he 
loves  you,  you  cannot  doubt.  I  am  a  man  exactly 
like  him ;  and  I  know." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  do?  " 

"  Not  to  think  of  him  as  worse  than  he  is.  To 
believe  in  him  because  he  fights  himself,  and  to  for- 
give him  what  he  fights  against.  That  is  all  I  can 
say.  You  know,  much  better  than  I  can  know,  all 
your  husband's  splendid  qualities.  You  know  that 
he  is  courteous,  that  he  is  courageous,  that  he  is 
gentle,  that  he  is  clever.  Love  these,  and  for  the 
rest  forgive  him,  because  he  does  not  forgive  him- 
self, and  because  he  loves  you — as  he  does." 

Her  gray  eyes — so  young  still — were  dull  and 
sad  as  she  asked, 

"  Are  you  sure  he  even  knows  these  things  ?  Are 
you  sure  he  would  rather  be  just  himself?  " 

"  You  cannot  take  my  word  for  it — the  word  of 
a  man  who  has  walked  the  same  road?  " 

"  Yes,"   she  said,  "  I  think  I  do  believe  you. 

But " 

[  399  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

He  drew  out  the  letter  which  Bradford  had  given 
him.  "  I  have  no  idea  what  is  in  this,"  he  said, 
"  but  your  husband  asked  me,  when  I  had  said  all 
that  I  could,  to  give  it  to  you,  and  ask  you  to  read 
it." 

She  took  it,  and  read  the  address.  It  was  an  old 
letter,  frayed  by  handling;  and  it  was  not  ad- 
dressed to  her.  She  had  seen  it  once  before.  "  To 
my  Mother  in  Heaven."  She  opened  it,  while 
Clarges  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  looking 
out. 

"  I  have  read  your  letter  to  me,"  it  began,  ab- 
ruptly. "  What  was  there  in  my  father  which  has 
come  down  to  me?  You  saw  to-night  that  I  could 
not  tell  the  least  little  story  exactly  as  it  happened. 
Why  did  I  lie  about  the  conductor?  I  did  not  mean 
to.  It  came  out  before  I  was  aware.  I  only  wanted 
to  make  the  story  sound  well.  Do  you  call  that 
lying,  up  where  you  are?  Perhaps  I  should  not 
have  called  it  so  before  I  had  your  letter,  but  things 
seem  different  now. 

"  Am  7  going  to  wear  out  my  emotions,  and 
grow  tired  of  everything?  Why  do  I  suspect  that 
Shedsy  is  fonder  of  Kate,  and  even  of  Slim,  than  he 
[400] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

is  of  me  ?  Why  do  I  care,  so  long  as  he  is  fond  of 
me,  to  have  him  fonder  of  me  than  of  anybody 
else  ?  And  you  know  that  it  isn't  only  Shedsy ;  it's 
everyone;  I  want  them  all — all — to  like  me  best. 
Yet  they  don't.  Why  should  they?  I  wonder  if 
I  am  honest  in  asking  that  question,  or  do  I  really 
think  I  am  cleverer  and  pleasanter  than  the  rest, 
even  while  I'm  denying  it?  God  knows,  and  you 
know,  too,  I  suppose,  mother.  What  is  this  thing 
that  besets  me?  Do  I  care,  really,  what  people 
think  of  me ;  really  want  them  to  like  me  ?  If  I  did, 
wouldn't  I  take  more  pains  to  make  them  like  me? 
You  know  I  take  no  pains.  It  is  rather  a  curious 
thing  to  boast  about,  but  I  don't  take  pains.  I 
will  set  it  down  squarely,  as  the  truth — I  don't  care 
whether  people  like  me  or  not.  What  then  ?  Is  it 
only  that  I  want  them  to  notice  me — have  I  fallen 
that  low  now? 

"  You  want  me  to  be  *  genuine.'  Aren't  we  all 
what  we  are?  Do  you  think  I  get  any  pleasure 
out  of  capering  and  grinning  to  amuse  people? 
Do  you  think  I  am  pleased  with  myself  when  I 
catch  myself  wondering  what  Tom,  Dick,  and 
Harry  in  the  street-car  arc  thinking  about  me; 
[401] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

when  I  raise  my  voice  so  they  can  hear  me  say 
something  witty?  Do  you  think  I  like  to  know 
that  I  give  the  best  of  me,  the  cheap  best  of  me,  to 
anybody  I  happen  to  meet  for  five  minutes?  Do 
you  think  I  like  to  keep  pumping  and  pumping 
and  pumping,  when  I'm  with  my  friends,  for  fear 
they  should  find  out  that  the  reservoir  is  all  empty 
— that  I  gave  it  all  to  a  man  who  went  by  half  an 
hour  ago  and  will  never  think  of  me  again?  For- 
give me  for  these  questions ;  I  know  you  know  that 
it  is  all  torture  to  me ;  only,  your  letter  made  me 
think  of  these  things,  and  thinking  of  them  hurts. 
Why  do  I  do  them  all?  Isn't  it  because  I  can't 
help  it?  And  isn't  that  being  genuine? 

"  Mother,  it  doesn't  help  me  to  tell  me  to  be  gen- 
uine. Don't  you  see,  that  only  makes  me  think 
about  myself,  and  thinking  about  myself  is  all  the 
trouble.  If  I  could  only  forget  myself  for  a  little 
while,  forget  myself  completely,  I  would  go  in  rags, 
I  might  treat  people  like  a  brute,  but  God !  I  should 
be  happy !  If  only,  for  a  little  while,  I  might  stop 
thinking  of  myself,  of  what  I  ought  to  do,  and 
just  do!  Mother,  you  have  the  ear  of  God,  I  am 
sure,  for  you  were  honest  when  you  were  on  earth, 
[402] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

and  you  suffered.  So  won't  you  take  this  prayer 
of  mine  and  lay  it  at  His  feet — a  petition  to  the 
King?  God,  let  me  feel !  Hate,  or  love,  or  agony, 
or  happiness,  just  let  me  feel!  This  is  my  answer, 
mother,  to  your  letter.  You  know  it  all,  already, 
I  am  sure.  Don't  desert  me,  don't  hate  me  for  it. 
Don't  forget  that  I  am  your  son.  Francis  Howell 
Bradford."  And  there  was  a  postscript  in  pencil. 
"  God  forgive  me ;  I  know  you  never  can.  It  is 
quite  true;  while  I  wrote,  I  was  conscious  that  I 
was  writing  well.  Well,  this  is  good-by." 

"  Were  you  to  see  him,  Father  Clarges  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Tell  him — tell  him  I  believe  him,  please."  Her 
voice  was  empty  of  expression.  Clarges  looked  at 
her ;  then  he  hurried  on  his  errand. 

Looking  at  his  watch,  he  saw  that  he  could  not 
even  reach  the  car-line  before  three — the  hour  when 
he  was  to  meet  Bradford.  There  was  a  recollection 
in  Clarges's  mind  of  which  he  had  said  nothing  to 
Amy.  He  did  not  admit  that  he  was  worried,  but 
remembrance  of  Bradford's  face  and  actions,  of 
his  final  remark — "  I  will  wait  for  you  until  three  " 
— spurred  him  on.  Nevertheless,  the  rector's  heart 
[403] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

was  higher,  as  he  rode  down  toward  Galton's,  than 
it  had  been  for  a  long  time.  Like  Bradford,  he 
had  tasted  honesty;  and  though  it  left  him  con- 
scious of  himself,  he  felt  that  at  least  his  effort  had 
not  been  thrown  away.  As  he  was  thinking  of  this 
the  car  stopped,  and  seemed  to  remain  still  for  a 
long  time.  Clarges  looked  out,  and  saw  a  line  of 
cars  ahead. 

"  How  long  is  this  going  to  last  ?  "  he  demanded 
of  the  conductor.  "  Maybe  five  minutes,"  said  that 
functionary;  and  Clarges  waited  impatiently  five, 
seven  minutes;  then  they  moved  on  slowly.  They 
stopped  again  half  a  block  on ;  five  minutes  more, 
and  they  had  not  yet  started.  Clarges,  he  did  not 
know  why,  began  to  grow  very  anxious.  He  almost 
began  to  wish  that  he  had  telephoned  Bradford  to 
wait.  He  decided,  if  nothing  happened  in  three 
minutes,  to  take  a  cab.  The  interminable  three 
minutes  came  to  an  end,  and  he  walked  quickly 
down  the  street,  looking  for  a  cab.  He  had  one 
at  length,  and  was  rattling  away  down-town.  With 
every  step  his  anxiety  increased,  and  he  told  him- 
self he  was  a  fool.  What  had  Bradford  meant  by 
that  sentence  of  his — "  I  shall  be  well,  this  time 
[404] 


THE     RECTOR     SPEAKS 

fo-morrow  "  ?  Probably  nothing.  Yet  it  seemed 
to  Clarges  that  he  must  get  out  and  run ;  anything 
to  lessen  the  time  before  he  reached  Bradford's 
office.  He  got  there  at  last.  It  was  five  minutes 
past  four.  The  elevator  crawled  up  to  the  top 
floor,  not  fast  enough  for  his  hurry.  He  asked  the 
red-uniformed  attendant  for  Bradford. 

"  Mr.  Bradford  has  just  gone,  sir." 

"Gone?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Impossible !    He  had  an  appointment  with  me." 

"  At  what  time,  sir?  " 

"  At  three." 

"  It  is  five  minutes  past  four.     He  left  at  four." 

"  Does  he  always  go  so  early  ?  " 

"  Not  often,  sir." 

"  Did  he  say  where  he  was  going?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

Clarges,  with  a  heavy  heart,  went  out,  won- 
dering. 


[405] 


Chapter  Twenty-One 

THE    ROAD    OUT 

Bradford  waited  twenty  minutes;  half  an  hour; 
three-quarters — but  Clarges  did  not  come.  Fin- 
gering the  pen  upon  his  desk,  the  dulness  of  cer- 
tainty lying  upon  his  heart,  Bradford  waited.  But 
at  last,  when  an  hour  was  up,  he  rose.  If  the 
rector  came  now,  it  could  only  be  that  he  would 
bring  bad  news,  the  worst  news,  the  final  news ;  and 
Bradford  preferred  not  to  listen  to  the  retailing 
of  that  again. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Stebbins,  just  see  that  that  demurrer 
is  filed  before  five  o'clock,  please.  I  shall  not  be 
back  this  afternoon." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Bradford  wondered  whether  the  clerk  would  use 
that  dull,  disinterested  tone,  if  he  knew  that  his 
superior  would  not  return  the  next  day,  either; 
nor  the  next ;  nor  the  next ;  nor  any  day  thereafter. 
As  he  went  out  Bradford  turned  at  the  door  and 
[406] 


THE     ROAD     OUT 

looked  back.  His  desk  was  in  a  cheerful,  sunny 
spot.  It  was  odd  to  think  that  he  should  never  see 
the  light  creep  down  the  curtains  any  more! 

He  dropped  into  a  drug-store  next  door,  where 
he  had  not  infrequently  made  purchases,  and  asked 
for  ten  eighth-grain  morphine  powders. 

"  Insomnia? "  inquired  the  clerk,  sympatheti- 
cally, as  he  filled  the  order. 

"  Oh — very  slight,  now  and  then.  But  these  are 
for  someone  else.  I  fancied  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
sell  them  without  a  prescription?  " 

The  clerk  laughed.  "  I  guess  we  can  trust  you, 
Mr.  Bradford.  They  lose  their  strength,  unless 
they're  kept  carefully." 

"  I  know.  But  I  think  they'll  last  as  long  as  my 
friend  needs  them,"  returned  Bradford,  carelessly. 
"  What  an  unholy  thing  it  would  be  to  fall  into 
the  habit  of  swallowing  these  things,  eh?  Turn  a 
man  yellow  as  brown  paper,  I  suppose  ? "  He 
stared  curiously  at  the  packet. 

"  I  guess.     Lots  of  folks  use  the  stuff,  though ; 
squirt  it  into  themselves.     It's  the  curse  of  the 
country ;  coming  to  be,  anyway."     The  cheerful 
answer  reminded  Bradford  of  Miss  Mangier. 
[407] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

"  Good-afternoon,"  he  said. 

"  That's  what  I  call  a  gentleman,"  remarked  the 
clerk,  when  Bradford  had  gone.  He  spoke  to  a 
lounger  by  the  cigar-case.  "  Polite,  he  is,  and 
sharp  as  a  razor.  Never  comes  in  here  but  he  says 
something  worth  listening  to.  Well,  he'd  oughto 
be  happy.  He's  old  Murdoch's  son-in-law,  he  is." 

"  That  feller?  " 

"  Imp-h'm.  He  only  works  when  he  feels  like  it, 
and  spends  the  rest  of  his  time  kiddin'  around.  I 
could  be  gay  myself,  with  that  snap." 

"  Yah !  Gimme  some  pennies,  Jack ;  I'm  goin' 
to  break  your  machine." 

Bradford  decided  to  walk  home.  This  would  be 
his  last  opportunity.  Somehow,  though  his  reso- 
lution was  fixed  and  quite  untroubled,  he  felt  that 
he  would  put  his  purpose  off  that  little  while.  It 
made  no  difference  whether  he  died  at  half-past 
four  or  at  five.  "  I  fancy  the  trains  to  where  I'm 
going  are  run  to  suit  the  passengers,"  he  thought. 
He  lingered  down  the  street,  looking  into  the  faces 
of  the  people  he  passed,  as  they  hastened  by  with  the 
set  look  of  people  who  must  not  be  detained.  They 
were  in  a  hurry.  Where  were  they  going?  To  an 
[408] 


THE     ROAD     OUT 

appointment?  So  was  he.  Home?  And  he.  Per- 
haps to  bargain  and  sell  ?  That,  at  least,  was  over 
for  him.  So  he  speculated.  His  brain,  which  was 
always  clear  and  sharp,  was  clearer  and  sharper 
than  ever.  He  had  that  sense  of  extra  senses  which 
had  now  and  then  possessed  him  before,  as,  for  in- 
stance, on  the  night  of  the  wreck,  when  he  came  to 
Carfax.  He  saw  everything — the  goods  in  the 
windows,  the  signs  of  the  stores,  the  traffic  in  the 
street,  and  the  expressions  on  the  faces  of  the 
passers-by — a  dozen  of  those  tiny  dramas  which  we 
let  go  unheeded  every  day :  the  long  hand-grip  of 
two  men  on  a  street-corner,  and  the  sarcastic  grin 
on  the  face  of  one  as  he  turned  away ;  the  flash  of 
a  thievish  newsboy  up  an  alley,  with  an  orange 
under  his  coat ;  the  progress  of  a  girl  and  a  young 
man  across  the  street,  oblivious  of  everything  but 
themselves.  He  heard  everything — the  clatter  of 
the  pedler's  toys,  the  rumble  of  the  wagons,  broken 
fragments  of  sentences  from  those  around  him,  the 
ring  of  hammers  on  a  building,  the  drip-drip  of 
water  where  a  great  plate-glass  window  had  been 
freshly  washed.  He  smelled  everything — the  man- 
ufactured perfume  of  the  bunch  of  gummy  carna- 
[  409  ] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

tions  thrust  into  his  face,  the  fragrance  of  orris- 
root  as  a  woman  hurried  by,  the  sour  odor  of 
cooking  from  a  basement  kitchen,  the  exhalations 
of  the  roadway.  Yet,  keen  as  his  senses  were,  he 
walked  in  a  dream  all  the  time,  unspeculative  on 
all  but  the  one  topic — what  would  these  people 
think  if  they  knew  what  he  was  on  his  way  to  do  ? 

Suddenly,  in  his  reverie,  he  was  aware  of  a  team 
bearing  down  upon  him  at  a  crossing,  and  he  leaped 
quickly  to  safety.  A  policeman  spoke  to  him 
sternly.  "  Mind  where  ye're  goin',  now.  They'll 
be  over  ye  yet." 

"  Thank  you,  officer.  I  saw  it  in  time,  though." 
Strange,  curious  human  heart,  he  mused !  He  was 
going  to  his  death,  and  yet  instinctively  he  had 
dodged  the  chance  which  would  have  made  his  walk 
unnecessary. 

Now  he  was  in  the  region  of  the  billboards,  and 
great,  gaudy  advertisements  screamed  at  him  in  all 
colors  and  shapes.  Among  them,  of  course,  were 
the  quotations  of  the  Shakespeare  Brand,  and,  over 
and  over,  Murdoch's  face  watching  him.  It  gave 
no  sign  of  fright  or  pity — was  not  that  curious? 
What  would  Murdoch  be  thinking  by  to-morrow? 
[410] 


THE     ROAD     OUT 

But  his  lithographs,  no  matter  what  he  thought, 
would  go  on  roaring  his  wares  through  the  satiated 
land,  and  his  face  would  look  as  happy  as  ever — a 
good  sort  of  a  man  to  clash  a  stein  with,  as  Brad- 
ford had  thought  once.  Bradford  was  aware  that 
his  pace  was  very  slow,  and  he  quickened  it ;  walk- 
ing on  through  the  mile  of  small,  tawdry,  dirty 
shop-fronts  with  the  shopkeepers  tilted  back  on  a 
wooden  chair  before  the  door.  They  would  sit  just 
so  to-morrow,  if  it  were  a  fine  day,  without  the 
slightest  knowledge  or  care  that  the  tall,  slight, 
well-dressed  young  man  who  had  looked  at  them 
so  eagerly  the  day  before  would  never  look  at  any- 
thing again.  Then,  he  had  got  among  the  man- 
sions on  the  avenue;  he  met  and  spoke  gayly  to  a 
few  people  he  knew,  reached  Murdoch's  house,  let 
himself  in  quietly,  and  went  up  to  his  own  room 
without  seeing  a  soul. 

He  sat  down  at  once  to  his  desk.  He  had  three 
letters  to  write,  and  he  wrote  them  rapidly,  without 
hesitation,  one  directly  after  the  other — one  to 
Clarges,  one  to  his  mother,  one  to  his  wife. 

"  I  know  that  you  have  done  what  you  could, 
and  of  course  I'm  obliged  to  you,  but  I  knew  be- 
[411] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

forehand  that  you  would  fail.  Still,  I'm  not  sorry 
I  told  you  about  it,  for  I  had  to  tell  someone. 
That  was  because  I  am  a  weak  man.  You,  being 
strong,  cannot  guess  what  weakness  is.  There  was 
a  time  when  I  disliked  you  because  you  disliked  me. 
Of  course,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me  now  what 
you  think  of  me;  and  yet,  oddly  enough,  I  dislike 
you  still.  I  may  as  well  be  honest,  since  this  is  my 
only  chance.  I  respect  you  highly,  and  thank  you, 
but  I  don't  like  you.  You'll  wonder  why  at  this 
particular  minute  I  stop  to  say  so.  I  hardly  know. 
Or  yes,  I  do ;  I  don't  want  to  go  to  my  death  leaving 
a  lie  behind  for  you.  Good-by,  and  thank  you 
again." 

"  It  is  foolish  to  be  writing  you,  mother,  since  I 
shall  know  in  a  very  few  minutes  whether  your  be- 
lief or  my  want  of  belief  is  the  truer  to  things  as 
they  are.  If  you  were  right  about  your  heaven, 
and  so  on,  my  chances  of  seeing  you  are  not  worth 
much;  we  shall  belong  to  different  worlds,  I'm 
afraid.  There  are  only  two  worlds,  though;  the 
false,  and  the  true.  I  believe  firmly  that  I  am 
cutting  loose  from  both,  and  ending  all  my  troubles, 
but  perhaps  I  am  only  getting  into  others.  At 
[412] 


THE     ROAD     OUT 

least  they  can't  be  worse  than  these,  and  you  know 
I  always  liked  change. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  little  prayer  you  made 
for  me,  once  ?  It  was  pretty  coldly  answered,  wasn't 
it?  I  go  the  road  my  father  went,  only  I  haven't 
his  consideration  for  my  family.  Prayers  are  dull 
things,  mother.  I  made  one,  once,  and  They,  who- 
ever They  are — or  was  it  just  Luck? — answered  it. 
I  wanted  to  feel,  and  be  myself.  That  was  allowed 
me.  But  They  are  ironical,  after  all.  They  let 
me  be  myself,  as  far  as  suffering  was  concerned, 
and  then  They  left  me  false  in  other  things.  Wasn't 
that  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse,  though !  Take  your 
cat-Gods,  mother;  forget  your  son;  he  and  they 
are  not  for  each  other.  He  will  stick  to  his  old 
theory  of  Luck. 

"  Well,  dear,  this  is  pretty  harsh,  isn't  it  ?  I 
ought  surely  to  write  more  kindly  things  to  a  dead 
mother.  But  you  see,  though  I  have  been  living 
lies  all  my  life,  I  don't  care  to  die  with  one  on  my 
lips.  I  have  got  pretty  far  down,  but  I  think  I 
have  found  myself,  down  here,  and  know  what  I 
am,  now ;  there  isn't  any  use  of  further  talking,  is 
there  ?  That  was  what  Amy  said  to  me  once.  Do 
[413] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

you  know  Amy?  She  has  been  worth  while — 
never  forget  that,  mother.  I  never  got  to  say  good- 
by  to  you,  do  you  remember?  You  were  gone 
when  I  saw  you.  This  is  my  good-by.  Luck  or 
the  cat-Gods,  whichever  it  is,  we  shall  never  see 
each  other  any  more.  So  good-by,  good-by,  my 
mother." 

"  You  think  me  untrue,  not  to  you,  but  to  myself. 
Believe  me,  Amy  dear,  I  am  dying  with  no  lie  on  my 
lips  when  I  say  for  the  last  time — I  love  you.  I 
know  that  the  kindly  and  courteous  thing  would  be 
to  fill  this  letter  with  rot,  such  as  I  could  easily 
write,  which  would  make  you  mind  less  that  I  had 
killed  myself.  But  I  have  been  shamming  and 
sham-polite  too  long;  I  am  past  the  kindly  and 
courteous  thing,  now.  I  want  you  to  care.  I 
want  you  to  know  there  was  something  about  me 
that  was  genuine,  even  if  it  was  only  genuine  brutal- 
ity, which  took  a  time  like  this  to  prove  itself.  Be- 
lieving that,  can  you  believe  that  I  loved  Boy,  and 
that  I  love  you?  Well,  that's  all.  I'm  pretty 
tired,  and  I'll  say  good-night,  dear." 

He  got  a  glass  of  water  and  a  spoon,  and,  taking 
the  little  packet  of  powders  in  his  hand,  opened  it. 
[414] 


THE     ROAD     OUT 

Then  he  measured  the  powders  into  the  water — one, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight.  They 
made  a  cloudiness  as  they  sank.  After  a  moment 
he  added  the  last  two,  brushing  off  the  clinging 
grains  solicitously  with  his  little  finger.  He  stirred 
the  water  with  the  spoon.  How  curious  it  seemed 
to  be  doing  this  as  calmly  as  if  he  were  only  going 
to  sleep!  He  set  the  glass  down,  and  addressed 
the  three  envelopes;  then,  laying  the  letters  to  his 
wife  and  to  the  rector  side  by  side,  he  slowly  burned 
the  letter  to  his  mother.  He  held  it,  with  his  mind 
on  other  things,  till  the  flame  reached  up  and 
touched  his  finger,  so  that  he  winced.  Then — what 
chord  did  that  strike?  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed,  silently  and  grotesquely.  Laughing, 
he  saw  himself  in  the  mirror — a  wild  face,  staring 
like  a  mask.  Where  was  his  calmness?  Was  he 
going  to  fail  himself  now,  at  the  end?  He  seized 
the  glass  nervously,  and  as  he  took  the  spoon  out 
it  dropped  clattering  on  the  floor.  The  noise  hurt 
Bradford's  nerves.  What — who  was  this  drinking? 
Frank  Bradford?  Surely  not.  Was  that  Frank 
Bradford  in  the  mirror  there,  with  a  glass  in  his 
hand — a  glass  half- full  of  cloudy  water?  He 
[415] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

shook  so  that  the  water  trembled ;  and  the  water  in 
the  mirror  trembled  too.  By  God,  it  was  he! 
Laughing  silently  once  more,  he  ended  his  hesita- 
tion, and  put  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

That  afternoon,  toward  half-past  four,  Amy 
went  up  to  her  room,  and  sitting  down  by  the  win- 
dow began  to  think  over  once  more  what  the  rector 
had  said.  She  had  given  him  her  word  to  believe 
her  husband,  and  to  forgive  him ;  but  her  resolution 
left  her  cold.  Her  will  and  her  intellect  were 
working,  not  her  emotions.  The  man  she  had 
married  was  gone,  she  thought;  or,  as  she  had 
told  him,  had  never  existed.  The  amiable,  gently 
smiling,  tired-looking,  politely  untruthful  gentle- 
man called  Frank  Bradford  was  what  he  had 
always  been.  Whether  he  loved  her  or  whether  he 
did  not,  there  was  really  no  way  of  knowing,  and 
the  question  was  not  material.  Amy  Bradford 
would  not  have  ceased  to  care  for  a  man  because  he 
ceased  to  care  for  her,  any  more  than  she  would 
have  begun  to  love  him  because  he  loved  her.  She 
was  steadfast.  If  Bradford  had  been  the  man  she 
thought  him  he  might  have  beaten  her  or  aban- 
doned her  or  been  unfaithful  to  her,  in  the  old 
[416] 


THE     ROAD     OUT 

phrase,  and  she  would  have  gone  right  on  loving 
him.  But — he  was  not  that  man ;  never  had  been. 

She  took  a  little  package,  tied  with  a  ribbon, 
from  her  jewel-case  and  opened  it.  Here  were  the 
photographs  of  her  dead  Boy.  She  laid  them  one 
by  one,  without  looking  at  them,  against  her  lips. 
She  did  not  need  to  look  at  them,  she  knew  them 
so  well.  Her  eyes  were  set  upon  the  lawn,  where 
the  sun  dripped  melted  gold  among  the  trees,  but 
she  saw  nothing  there.  The  wind  among  the  grass 
variegated  it  in  light  and  shade,  but  Amy  knew  it 
not.  For  her  the  soul  was  gone  from  sun  and  wind 
and  trees.  One  by  one  she  laid  the  pictures  back, 
all  but  the  last,  the  picture  of  the  baby  laughing. 
She  lifted  it  to  her  face,  but  she  did  not  kiss  it, 
only  laid  it  hungrily  and  tenderly  against  her 
breast.  O  baby  mine! 

A  noise  reached  her  ears  from  her  husband's 
room  adjoining.  Her  husband  had  not  yet  come 
home,  she  thought,  and  no  one  else  had  any  busi- 
ness there  at  this  hour.  She  opened  the  door,  the 
picture  in  her  hand.  The  letters  lay  upon  the 
desk,  in  full  view,  with  the  open  box  of  powders 
beside  them.  Her  husband,  with  a  glass  of  cloudy 
[417] 


THE     CHAMELEON 

water  at  his  lips,  stared  at  her  over  the  rim.  In  his 
eyes  she  saw  sorrow  and  weariness  and  fear,  which 
changed  as  hers  met  them.  She  rushed  to  him,  and 
snatching  the  glass,  hurled  it  wildly  into  the  grate, 
where  it  crashed  in  broken  splinters.  Did  he  care 
so  much  as  this,  so  much  as  this  ?  She  hardly  knew 
either  how  or  why,  but  her  arms  were  round  his 
neck,  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  same  shud- 
der shook  them  both.  "  Oh,  Frank,  Frank !  "  The 
baby's  picture  dropped  from  her  hand,  unheeded, 
and  fluttered  to  the  floor.  Bradford  was  afraid  to 
kiss  her,  but  he  stood  and  held  her  in  his  arms,  and 
saw  the  road  to  life  stretching  up  from  the  gates 
of  death  he  had  been  about  to  enter. 
There  we  had  better  leave  them. 


THE  END 


[418] 


Carfcington 


THE  TWO   VANREVELS 

r 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON'S  new  novel,  The 
Two  Vanrevels,  is  a  love  story  of  Indiana, 
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THE   BLAZED   TRAIL 

A  STORY  OF  LOVE  AND  WAR  IN  THE  GREAT 
PINE  WOODS 

r 

J.N  Thorpe,  the  Landlooker,  and  his  "Fighting 
Forty"  of  lumberjacks,  Mr.  White  has  given 
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types  of  the  pioneer  since  the  early  work  of 
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GABRIEL   TOLLIVER 

r 

J.  HIS  is  by  far  the  most  mature  and  important 
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David  Copperfield,  Gabriel  Tolliver  is  in- 
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Reconstruction  in  the  South.  It  is  the  most 
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the  corruption  of  the  carpet-baggers.  In  the 
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THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL  is  the  name 
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EMMY  LOU,   HER   BOOK   AND 
HEART 

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THE   GENTLEMAN   FROM 
INDIANA 

r   . 

VfNE  of  the  notable  American  novels  of  the 
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